Page 13 of Festive Fugitive
Cesar enters carrying a pile of wood. His facial expression is stern, impossible to read, so I hope for the best andassume he has resting serious face. Which, incidentally, I find stupidly hot.
“I started a fire in the bedroom already. It’s small, so by the time we lie down, it should be nice and cozy there,” my host says, kneeling in front of the wood burner close to the couch.
At this point, I don’t need the fireplace, because hot flames fueled by inappropriate thoughts lick my neck, my jaw, and then my cheeks. He didn’t say ‘bedrooms’. And I highly doubt there are two singles in there. Or maybe there are, but I’m too awkward to ask about it.
“It’s been a while since I slept in a real bed. Thank you. Again. Is there a shower here? I don’t feel so fresh after… everything.”
“There is, but you need to wait for the water to heat a bit.” He nods, leaning forward and blowing on the flames. His back is so nice—sturdy, wide—I wouldn’t mind using it as my anchor.
I haven’t had sex for even longer than I was homeless.
How pathetic is that?
I take off my jacket, which feels like removing armor. It’s old, utilitarian, in a vomit color between green and brown. I don’t love it, but it’s warm, and has a lot of pockets, even if it’s torn on one elbow. Underneath I have a big gray hoodie which, unlike Cesar’s nice fitted sweater, does nothing for my body. Not that it matters. I wish it did.
I’m so greedy. It’s not enough that this man is risking his life to save me from prison, I also have to make him the object of my fantasies.
“I’m sorry I dragged you into all this. It must be such upheaval in your life,” I say quietly as the room fills with the warm glow of fire.
He glances my way, halfway through closing the wood burner, and the flames reflect in his dark eye like an echo of my lust. “I’m the one who should be thankingyou,” he says, rising to his feet and approaching me.
I force myself to look up, because my instinct is to zero in on his crotch. It’s been far too long since I was touched, and after he freakingcarriedme, I’m a little smitten.
“For the sandwich?” I joke and hold it out to him. The better one, without ketchup dripping out of it.
He accepts it and sits on the old couch, so close his knee brushes mine, sending thousands of fiery ants up my thigh. “No. For doing what I couldn’t and taking care of that sonofabitch.” With that, he pokes his sandwich against mine, as if we’re toasting.
I’m so proud of myself I straighten a little as I bite in. I’ve not had this much substantial food within twenty-four hours for a while now. I’m reminded of how Cesar dealt withfourcops and a civilian with a gun, and my heart beats a little faster. To have someone like that on my side? Wow. Just wow.
Unless he actually is a serial killer and I’m a sitting duck. No one will miss me but the cops itching to get a promotion following my capture.
We’re about similar height, but when he sits so close to me, I’m even more aware of how much bigger he is. The jacket could have created that silhouette through good tailoring, but nope, he’s just that well-built. No wonder, if all those protein bars and cans of tuna are his go-to snacks.
“You wanna go shower first? You deserve it after the drive,” I say between one bite and another.
Cesar glances my way, his gaze intense as if he’s trying to peek under my skin, but before I can feel self-conscious, he finishes one of his sandwiches and rises. “I justmight. Won’t use much water, and this way I’ll make sure you don’t freeze,” he says and pulls off everything he’s wearing on top.
I’m salivating, and it’s not because of the food.
I took him for a straight-laced kind of guy, at least as straight-laced as someone who is ex-special forces can be, but his whole upper body is covered by a massive tattoo. Reminiscent of the ink I’ve seen on Viking culture enthusiasts, a huge tree spreads all over his back, sides, and torso. Even his arms are adorned with the ink. Woven into its leafy branches are symbols that at first glance don’t seem to fit in with the main image. I spot the Eiffel Tower, as well as some other landmarks from all around the world, as if he were collecting memories. One space is notably left blank, right over the heart, but the skin below it is marked by a massive red scar descending from Cesar’s solar plexus to his navel. I shouldn’t stare, but at least the scar gives me a reasonable excuse. Not that I’m not interested how he got it, but I’m too busy admiring every dip between chiseled muscles, his pecs, his biceps, and oh-my-fucking-god, the V-shaped muscles at the hips? Yep, they’re most definitely there too.
The fire burns behind him, his body is a work of art, the eye-patch makes him seem hot-dangerous (which he is), and I’ve never felt more inadequate.
He’sGQ, and I’m the free local newspaper you get in the mailbox and immediately throw away.
He’s the main hero of a Marvel movie, and I’m the fifth guy in theFantastic Fourwho didn’t make the cut.
He’s a wolf on the prowl, and I’m daddy long legs.
Even the fact that I dare fantasize about someone so out of my league is embarrassing.
“Um… That’s a big scar,” I point out, and he touches it, as if I could ever make someone like him self-conscious.
“I’ve had it for a long time,” he mutters and clears his throat. “I won’t be long.”
He’s gone before I can apologize for daring to soil his cabin with my presence, but it’s not like I can take my comment back. Couldn’t I have been normal and said something like ‘wow, that’s some gains, bro. Which protein shake do you recommend?’
As promised, he’s soon back, dressed in sweats and a long-sleeve. Is it because it’s still a bit chilly, or because he doesn’t want to show the scar to the weirdo who pointed it out? I’ll never know. I’ve already finished my food, and the fatigue of our escape is catching up with me, so I’m grateful that he’s willing to switch on the water for me in the tiny wet room.
