Page 41 of Under Southern Stars
“Morning,” I say, voice rough with sleep.
“Hi.” That shyness from last night returns. “I didn’t want to wake you. Thought you needed sleep after yesterday.”
“Best sleep I’ve had in months.” I sit up, wincing slightly as my shoulder protests. “Even with this.”
She moves closer, studying the bruise in daylight. It’s properly spectacular now—deep purple spreading across my chest.
“Jack, that looks—”
“Worse than it feels.” I catch her hand. “Promise.”
She stands at the bed’s edge, fingers ghosting over the bruise. “You saved a whole family.”
“We saved them. Team effort.”
“Well, thenewsdidn’t make it sound like a team effort.” Her fingers trail lower, and my breath catches. “Theymade it sound like you were Superman.”
“Clark Kent was a journalist, not a paramedic.” I pull her closer. “And I don’t look that good in tights.”
“I don’t know…” Her eyes darken.
“Now, you?” I tell her very seriously, “I think you’d look good in anything. I mean, the towel looks great…”
The towel slips slightly. My hand finds her hip, thumb stroking bare skin.
“…but it’d look even better on the floor.”
The towel drops all the way to the ground, and I take in the most beautiful sight in the wholefuckingworld.
Sophia leans in, kisses me soft and sweet, morning breath and all. She moves to sit on my lap. I forget about my shoulder, forget about coffee, forget about everything except her warm weight settling onto my lap.
“Gorgeous,gorgeous,” I murmur against her throat. “How are you real?”
She makes a sound that goes straight through me. I’m barely hanging on now, and—
My phone buzzes. Dispatch.
“Ignore it,” she breathes.
It buzzes again. And again.
“Shit.” I fumble for it one-handed, not letting her go. “McKenzie.”
“Morning, Kiwi!” Morrison’s voice is unnecessarily cheerful. “Need you to swing by and fill out incident reports from yesterday. Insurance needs them ASAP.”
“Now?”
“Within the hour. Hero paperwork waits for no one.”
I hang up, groaning. “Bloody bureaucracy.”
Sophia laughs, climbing off my lap. I become painfully aware of my erection, which is throbbing like it was the star feature in one of Sophie’s smutty novels. I spend a moment just admiring her beautiful body, speechless.
“I need clothes anyway,” I say when I can speak again. “Can’t keep borrowing your t-shirts.”
“That’s too bad.” She disappears back into the bathroom. “There’s coffee downstairs. Help yourself.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re both dressed—me in yesterday’s uniform pants and a Metro General shirt that’s slightly too small, Sophia in jeans and a soft blue sweater that makes her eyes impossible to look away from.
