Page 83 of South Beach Bodyguards

Until now. Until Olivia.

Three times now I’d been in her presence and all three times she had drawn feelings out of me I didn’t want to exist. I wanted to deny it, but when she got woozy from seeing my bullet wound, all I could think was that she was the cutest, sweetest thing ever and I wanted to help her.

What the actual fuck?

If this wasn’t borrowing trouble, I didn’t know what was.

Because after a brief pause, where I stared down at her and wondered what was happening to me, and why I desperately craved a shot of whiskey to calm my nerves, she went up on tiptoes and kissed me.

I hadn’t thought she would. I kept asking, because I’m a dick like that. I was teasing, poking, being a prick. Making myself more comfortable by making her uncomfortable. But she knew my trick and she turned it right around on me because she rose to the challenge and pressed her lips onto mine. A soft kiss, delicate and questing, and she dug her fingernails into my left bicep.

She pulled back far too quickly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was so squeamish, but I’ve never seen a gunshot wound before.”

“My other one was worse,” I assured her. “This is nothing.”

“Your idea of nothing and my idea of nothing don’t mesh.” She glanced down at my arm again.

It didn’t even hurt that much anymore. Throbbing, but not off the charts. “I don’t have any rubbing alcohol. I’ll just pour some whiskey on it.” I had a bottle above the fridge. “Let me get this shirt off.”

“I’ll help you.”

Even better then. I could stand there and let her strip me, no problem. She had the cutest little button nose, and when she concentrated, she scrunched it up. Right now she looked like she was afraid of what she might find when she took off my jacket. “There is no blood anywhere else, I promise.”

“I know.” She glanced up at me under long, dark lashes that were at odds with her blond hair. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

Olivia didn’t have a deep tan like most women I knew. Her time was spent in the classroom and she had soft, fair skin, and full raspberry lips. Her big brown eyes expressed more than I think she knew and now I could tell what she was remembering. The night before.

I’d never been one to give much thought to the oddity of having sex with a total stranger. Of peeling off layers down to bare skin, bodies joining in random, sticky passion. I didn’t look at those women afterward and think it was strange or feel uneasy. Yet I did with Olivia. Something intimate had happened between us, fueled by the circumstances and now I didn’t know what to do with it. I looked at her and it felt like I should know her, because I knew her body, knew how to read her expressions, but I didn’t actually know her. At all.

“What are you worried about?”

Her fingers stroked over my chest, beneath my shirt, a soft, feathery touch. She wasn’t looking at me, but at my skin. She traced my tattoo. “This. I’m worried about this.”

“My tattoo?” I knew that wasn’t what she meant but I wanted her to say it.

She shook her head. “I’m worried about seeing you without a shirt on. I don’t want to go there again. I can’t go there.”

That was disappointing, but not surprising. “I’m not asking you to.”

Her palms spread out over my skin. Even a simple touch like that from her was arousing to me. She was just so damn sexy and she didn’t even know it.

“Don’t you want me?” she asked.

That was fucking ironic. “Of course I do. But I would never ask you for something you can’t give.” I was an asshole, but not that big of one. Besides, if I pushed her and she gave in and we had amazing sex, which we would, she would want more.

I had nothing more to give.

She peeled my shirt down over my shoulders and took first my uninjured arm, and then the jacked up one, out of the sleeves. She bundled up the ruined shirt up and stepped back. “The rest of you looks intact.”

Her gaze dropped to my cock. I wasn’t even sure she knew she did that. But I was sporting a semi-erection. All I needed was a little encouragement and I would have her up against my kitchen counter, taking her sweet wet pussy. When she glanced up at me she must have seen my desire because her eyes widened and she licked her lips.

“Where is that whiskey?” she asked, her voice husky, confused.

She was warring with herself just as much as I was.

I turned and reached for the bottle over the fridge. I didn’t trust myself to speak or to look at her. I wanted to touch her with every fiber of my being. I wanted to show her that the night before wasn’t an anomaly, that we had some serious goddamned chemistry and we should explore that. But we shouldn’t and we couldn’t, so I pulled down my Jack Daniels, took a huge swallow and handed her the bottle, tossing the cap on the counter. “Just pour it on my arm.”

“This is a little barbaric.” She looked nervous but she took the bottle from me and sucked in a deep breath. Then she just poured it over my wound.

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