Page 45 of Brick

Maybe someone was trying to tell her something. She smiled ruefully and used the light on her phone to dig out two fat candles from the top shelf of the cabinet where she kept her glasses. A matchbook hid under some Post-Its inside the junk drawer.

As she lit the wicks and inhaled the vanilla scent, she let her mind drift away to her fantasies. The candles set the stage for a night of slow seduction. Soft music. Maybe they would dance together.

There would definitely be kissing.

And she’d feel the weight of his body against hers.

Lightning flashed, bathing the room in bright white, and like a specter brought to life, Brick was suddenly visible outside the window. The rain had plastered his short, dark hair to his head. His black t-shirt clung to his body and streams of water poured over his skin.

The electricity flickered back on.

Dropping the matchbook to the table, she lunged for the door and threw it open. The rain came in sideways, soaking her pink pajama shirt and shorts in seconds.

Then Brick stepped inside, closing the door, locking out the elements behind him.

“You’re soaked.” She barely recognized her own voice, deep and breathy, as it came out. She ran to the bathroom, returning with two fluffy white towels in her arms and a pair of sweatpants hanging over her shoulder. Brick hadn’t moved. She couldn’t read his expression.

She stepped forward, her hand hovering over his midsection. “May I?”

He nodded and squeezed his eyes shut as she tugged his wet t-shirt out of his jeans, lifting it up to reveal his ridged abdomen and thick, muscled chest. Dark hair covered his pecs, and she bit back the impulse to run her fingers over them. Brick hunched forward, allowing her to pull the material over his head and away from his body.

It hit the ground with a wet slap.

She dropped to her knees, unlacing his heavy black work boots, then pulling them off one at a time. He grabbed her arm, pulling her gently back to her feet. His touch made her pounding heart beat even faster. Licking her lips, she reached for the button fly of his jeans.

Inch by agonizing inch, she removed his wet pants. His impressive cock strained toward her beneath his boxer briefs. It would be easy to take him in her hand, but he was cold and wet, and he clearly had something on his mind. So, her demanding libido would have to wait.

With care, she towel-dried his hair, then ran the soft terrycloth over his left shoulder and down his arm. She gave the same attention to the right side before dragging the material across his back and leaving it hooked around the back of his neck.

Putting the second towel in his hand, she walked to the window and closed the blinds. She didn’t turn around. “Take the rest of your wet clothes off and get dry.”

Though he didn’t answer, she could hear him moving and more wet clothes hitting the floor. She counted to ten, then chanced a glance back. He had the second towel tied around his waist.

She handed him her brother’s sweats. “Here. You can wear these while your stuff dries.” Gathering his wet clothes off the floor, she checked all the pockets and placed his wallet, phone, keys, and a wicked-looking knife on top of the washing machine before tossing his clothes in the dryer.

She’d barely taken two steps back into the room when he spoke. “Why do you have a man’s clothes in your apartment?” His eyebrows drew down sharply at her smile.

The idea he might be jealous felt like champagne bubbles in her chest, but she didn’t tease him. He’d looked too worn down when she’d let him in the door. “My brother left them here a few weeks ago. I never got around to giving them back.”

His face relaxed, and she allowed herself the luxury of taking a long look at his chiseled body. His torso reminded her of Henry Cavill’s in the first Superman movie. Tan skin seemed to go on forever over his hard, cut stomach muscles.

And those sweatpants? They hung deliciously low on his hips, showing off a sculpted vee that disappeared beneath the drawstring waist.

She swallowed as her mouth began to water. Venturing forward, she finally allowed her fingers to drift over his broad chest. She wanted to look at him everywhere…touch him everywhere.

He growled deep in his throat, making her wonder if he knew the direction of her thoughts. Did he know how desperately she wanted to kiss him? To have him in her bed?

She tried to meet his gaze, but Brick had eyes for only one thing. Her mouth.

He stared unerringly at her lips for so long, she wondered if he’d ever close the distance between them. Then he was there, his mouth questing, his tongue darting against hers. Heat pooled in her belly as his hands splayed across her back and slid down to rest on her hips.

Finally.

Her nipples hardened as they rubbed against the cold, wet cotton of her shirt. What she really wanted—what she needed—was the connection of skin on skin. She wrenched herself away, long enough to peel her top over her head, then dove back into his arms. For a moment, she registered the heat of him, the abrasion of his chest hair against her tender breasts, but then he put his mouth on her again.

Dear God, the man knew how to kiss.

His tongue plunged in and out of her like he was making love to her mouth. He tasted faintly of chocolate and coffee, decadent and delicious. His calloused hands scratched gently along her arms, before descending to her ass and lifting her up and onto his body.

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