sink, I can’t.” He dropped back down to the floor and stretched out, scowling at her one last time before his head disappeared into the cabinet. From under the sink came a muttering stream of curses, like a bear grumbling in his cave.
She stared down at him. Now that she knew it was alive and didn’t belong to an axe murderer, that was one really nice body to have stretched out there on those worn tiles. Big, half-filling the kitchen. A very reassuring strength to have around, to fight the lingering ghosts of axe murderers. He couldn’t even see her ogling it either. As long as he kept working on that sink, she could ogle it a long time.
One knee drawn up, jeans hugging lean hips, a T-shirt clinging softly to stomach muscles drawn in extra tight with the work he was doing. Wide shoulders, the undersides of muscled arms visible as he used the wrench. “I see you got your T-shirt on,” she said regretfully.
Then clapped her hand to her mouth. Oops. That regretful tone must be due to the shock of the moment.
He made a low, growling noise, clearly still grumpy.
Damn , she loved the growling noise. It just hummed through the air and through her bones. Her hands actually curved, fingers shifting to press down strings and strum, as if she could capture the sound, caress it, play it.
Be one hell of an instrument that could capture that sound. Her fingers flexed into the air, in frustration over all the moments that her music could never capture. And her gaze scanned the real instrument of that sound, that broad chest and that stretch of tan throat, and her fingers—all by themselves, she swore her brain knew better—thought about ways they could play more growls out of him. The tickling way they could run up his ribs right this second, get him to growl in protest, then maybe test the resilience of those chest muscles and see what other sounds he made when he was…
She curled her fingertips tightly into her palms and tucked them behind her, locking them between her butt and the counter to make them behave.
It was hard to make them behave. Her gaze drifted to where his drawn-up knee pulled the jeans against his crotch, and her impish, idiot fingers all the sudden thought about what sound he might make if she touched him there , and—
She smashed her butt harder against her hands, pinching them against the counter.
Probably be one hell of a sound, though , her brain thought wistfully.
Oh, fine, now her brain was going to turn idiot, too.
Yeah, but…admit you want to hear that sound.
“I’ll just, ah…clean up,” she said, and crouched to start collecting the chocolate bars that were scattered all around his body. A couple of them were even tucked half under his butt. She smiled a little, and then gave her fingertips a little rap against the hard tiles to try to knock some sense into them.
The hard stomach drew in even tighter. She followed that tightness up his torso—and started when she found that, in the shadow of the cabinet, he’d curled his head up enough to gaze at her.
“Nice T-shirt,” she said dreamily. It was, too. This lovely golden-brown, fine cotton that kindly clung to all the definition of the muscles stretched out before her. The scent of roses came off him, mixed erotically with dirt and grease and sweat. “Although not as good as being naked.”
The breath whooshed from him. A small thump as he hit his head on the pipe.
She clapped her hand to her mouth. Oh, good God. She had not just said that, had she? If this is your newest way of procrastinating on that album, Layla Dubois, you have lost your mind.
“Uh—don’t get any ideas!” She held up a hand hastily, as if that could really ward off someone his size.
“Hard not to, now,” he growled, low and deep. Oh, yeah. Already a promising sound there. One that vibrated through her whole body. He pushed himself out from under the cabinet enough to half sit up, one arm looping around his knee and the other hand rubbing his
She stared down at him. Now that she knew it was alive and didn’t belong to an axe murderer, that was one really nice body to have stretched out there on those worn tiles. Big, half-filling the kitchen. A very reassuring strength to have around, to fight the lingering ghosts of axe murderers. He couldn’t even see her ogling it either. As long as he kept working on that sink, she could ogle it a long time.
One knee drawn up, jeans hugging lean hips, a T-shirt clinging softly to stomach muscles drawn in extra tight with the work he was doing. Wide shoulders, the undersides of muscled arms visible as he used the wrench. “I see you got your T-shirt on,” she said regretfully.
Then clapped her hand to her mouth. Oops. That regretful tone must be due to the shock of the moment.
He made a low, growling noise, clearly still grumpy.
Damn , she loved the growling noise. It just hummed through the air and through her bones. Her hands actually curved, fingers shifting to press down strings and strum, as if she could capture the sound, caress it, play it.
Be one hell of an instrument that could capture that sound. Her fingers flexed into the air, in frustration over all the moments that her music could never capture. And her gaze scanned the real instrument of that sound, that broad chest and that stretch of tan throat, and her fingers—all by themselves, she swore her brain knew better—thought about ways they could play more growls out of him. The tickling way they could run up his ribs right this second, get him to growl in protest, then maybe test the resilience of those chest muscles and see what other sounds he made when he was…
She curled her fingertips tightly into her palms and tucked them behind her, locking them between her butt and the counter to make them behave.
It was hard to make them behave. Her gaze drifted to where his drawn-up knee pulled the jeans against his crotch, and her impish, idiot fingers all the sudden thought about what sound he might make if she touched him there , and—
She smashed her butt harder against her hands, pinching them against the counter.
Probably be one hell of a sound, though , her brain thought wistfully.
Oh, fine, now her brain was going to turn idiot, too.
Yeah, but…admit you want to hear that sound.
“I’ll just, ah…clean up,” she said, and crouched to start collecting the chocolate bars that were scattered all around his body. A couple of them were even tucked half under his butt. She smiled a little, and then gave her fingertips a little rap against the hard tiles to try to knock some sense into them.
The hard stomach drew in even tighter. She followed that tightness up his torso—and started when she found that, in the shadow of the cabinet, he’d curled his head up enough to gaze at her.
“Nice T-shirt,” she said dreamily. It was, too. This lovely golden-brown, fine cotton that kindly clung to all the definition of the muscles stretched out before her. The scent of roses came off him, mixed erotically with dirt and grease and sweat. “Although not as good as being naked.”
The breath whooshed from him. A small thump as he hit his head on the pipe.
She clapped her hand to her mouth. Oh, good God. She had not just said that, had she? If this is your newest way of procrastinating on that album, Layla Dubois, you have lost your mind.
“Uh—don’t get any ideas!” She held up a hand hastily, as if that could really ward off someone his size.
“Hard not to, now,” he growled, low and deep. Oh, yeah. Already a promising sound there. One that vibrated through her whole body. He pushed himself out from under the cabinet enough to half sit up, one arm looping around his knee and the other hand rubbing his
Similar Books
