Page 36 of The Woman with the Wallet

And for me, the best place to think was the shower. It was probably a layover from my childhood, from a house full of so many younger siblings that it was hard to find any time to myself. The splashing of the water onto the floor always managed to just about drown out the squeals, laughs, and cries going on in the rest of the house as I would just stand there and think.

It was still the first thing I did when life got too heavy or too confusing, when my mind was reeling and nothing was getting figured out. Take a shower. Let all the other shit wash away.

Almost without fail, by the time I climbed out, I had a new perspective, if not an outright solution, to whatever I was dealing with.

The longer I stood there under the hot water, the bathroom steaming up despite the exhaust fan going at full tilt, the more my thoughts simply drifted in one direction.

The woman sleeping her bone-deep exhaustion off on my couch.

I couldn’t pretend to relate to her early life, to the things that likely motivated her later on. I had both parents. A relatively comfortable life. Happy memories with loved ones. But I could relate to her hunger, that drive to push yourself harder and harder. Right up and through the point of complete exhaustion.

I knew too well the way your body would finally just throw up its hands and say ‘fuck this’ when you’d been going too hard for too long, leaving you damn near catatonic for days on end until it got a chance to recover.

Sure, she seemed motivated by the hardships of her youth, and mine was hunger for a better future. But burnout was burnout, regardless of what led you to drive yourself there.

I was more intrigued by her ambition than I should have been.

While I’d always had an appreciation for strong women, for the kind of balls it took for women like Max and Lil to not only survive but thrive in a male-dominated criminal underground, I always thought my type was softer women. Sweeter women. The ones without the sharp edges to get caught on.

So the way just the thought of Max putting her sights on me, then walking confidently toward me to take my wallet, had my cock stirring to life in the shower was unexpected.

One thing I did know, though, was that if I didn’t deal with it, there was going to be no thinking straight around her.

So my hand slid down, grabbing my cock and stroking to the thoughts of how such a hard, strong woman could be made real fucking soft with the right words, with the right kiss, with the right touch.

The images conjured up had me coming so hard that I fell back against the shower wall, my fucking legs feeling weak.

“Great,” I grumbled to myself.

Really, the last thing I needed was to know that just the idea of being with someone like Max could have that kind of impact on me while I very much needed to work alongside her until this shit was solved.

Or at least, that was what I thought as I draped a towel around my hips and made my way into my bedroom.

And there was Max.

Looking for me.

But likely not expecting to find me practically fucking naked.

Even from across the room, I could hear the way her breath hitched, how her lips fell open, how her eyes went heavy-lidded as her gaze slid over me.

Yeah, correction.

The last thing I needed wasn’t to find out that I was attracted to Max. But that she was also very clearly attracted to me as well.

“Feel better?” I asked, watching as her gaze flew back up to my face, the desire on plain display for just a moment before she tamped it down, hid it back behind a mask of indifference, if not outright disgust. “After the nap,” I clarified.

“I, uh, yeah,” she said, keeping her gaze stubbornly on my face even as I moved closer. “I never knock off like that. I usually really struggle to sleep, actually. Apparently, all I need is a—what—five-thousand-dollar couch to sleep properly.”

“It was forty-five hundred, but I got a feeling it had nothing to do with the couch. Think you might have passed out like that on the damn subway; you were so dead on your feet.”

I made my way over toward the closet as I said this, leaving the door open as I grabbed a pair of boxer briefs, turned, and dropped the towel to pull them on.

I turned just quickly enough to catch her forcing her gaze back down to the floor. It took actual work not to smile as I slipped into socks, slacks, a shirt, tie, and jacket.

“Good God, do you ever just wear jeans? Sweats?”

“Not really, no,” I admitted. Appearances were important to me. A nice suit told the world that youweresomeone. It demanded notice and respect. And, in the Family, it said you belonged. “Gym, maybe. And sleep. Those are about the only times I’m not dressed,” I admitted, fetching a different pair of cufflinks, then slipping my cross necklace and watch back on.

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