Fighting Dirty

Like fucking close.

“They’re cute.”

“They’re absurd,” he corrected. The boxers sported two arrows—one that pointed up and said, The Man, and another that pointed to his junk and said, The Legend.

“I like them.” She leaned in—nearly stopping his heart—and gave the door a push to close it. Then she stayed right there, letting him breathe her in and feel the heat of her slender body and smell the scent of her skin.

She touched his head as if to check the butterfly bandage. “You showered.”

“Yeah.” And jerked off while he was in there. Not that his dick seemed to remember it now.

“This isn’t as tight as it should be.” She prodded gently at the special bandage, securing it again.

Taking her wrist, he pressed her palm to his jaw and closed his eyes.

“Armie?”

Get it together, he warned himself. “Come here.” Slipping an arm around her shoulders, he walked her to the couch and got her to sit. “Want a drink?”

She lifted his glass and sniffed, took a tiny sip and made a face. “Whatever you’re drinking would be fine.”

He tucked in his chin. “You don’t drink whiskey.” Except she’d just sipped it straight from his glass.

“Today is a good day to start, don’t you think?”

Yeah, probably. “One.” He glanced at her slim jeans, flat-heeled boots and the oversize hoodie, but didn’t allow himself as long a look as he’d have liked. “Stay put. I’ll be right back.”

On his way to the kitchen he felt her gaze on his ass. Literally felt it. He needed some jeans, only that’d look chicken shit. Or maybe modest.

He wasn’t either.

After getting another glass he poured her a shot of whiskey and went back to find her sitting cross-legged, a pillow hugged to her chest, her head down.

Softly, he said, “Hey.”

She looked up, those sparkling blue eyes sad but filled with so much pride and strength. “Will you sit with me?”

Armie clenched all over. She might as well have asked, “Will you rub your naked body over mine?” because his body reacted as if she had.

But damn it, he had control and somehow he’d find it. “Sure.” He lowered himself to the couch about a foot from her. “Here.”

She took the glass, sipped, made another face, then licked her lips.

Blindly he reached for his own glass and downed it.

Merissa studied him. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Not enough.” Clearly. Because all he could think about was pulling her close, kissing her, laying her down on the couch.

Under him.

Her lashes lowered. “Are you still thinking about it, too?”

Sex? “Yeah.”

“I keep remembering...”

Not sex. Letting out a breath, Armie took her hand. “Maybe you should have spent the night with Cannon.” He could still get her there, either by calling a cab, or Cannon himself—

“No.” She snuggled in, her arms around his waist, her head on his shoulder. Her long hair teased his skin and the rest of her teased his libido. He wanted to put his hands all over her, but instead kept them on her shoulders.

Until she said, “I’m sorry, Armie, but I’d really rather stay here with you.”

He lurched back so fast he almost fell off the couch.

They stared at each other.

Usually, when he balked at her suggestions, Rissy’s feelings got hurt, which in turn made her pissy. Not this time.

This time she smiled gently and slid over to sit closer again. “Is that asking too much?”

He croaked, “No.” Nothing was too much for her, but how the hell would he handle it?

“Good.” Sighing, she hugged him. “Thank you.”

Um... “Welcome.”

“You really are drunk, aren’t you?”

He shook his head—which made the room spin. Lethargy and lust battled. “I’ll take the couch.”

Instead of arguing, she again snagged her drink, settled back against him and sipped. “What are we watching?”

He glanced at the TV. “I don’t know.”

She picked up the remote. “Do you mind?”

Against him, away from him, against him, away from him. Her bouncing back and forth made him more than a little nuts.

A hand in his hair, Armie shook his head. “Help yourself.” As she flipped through the channels, he wondered what the hell had happened. One minute he’d been sitting alone worrying about her, and now she’d put on an old movie and was tugging off her boots.

Drink in hand, she made herself comfortable—back against him again. After a second, she readjusted, taking his arm and looping it around her shoulders, then wiggling in closer. “Is this okay?”

He had a boner, his heart was trying to pound its way out of his chest, and every muscle on his body contracted, but whatever. “Sure.” He dropped a throw pillow over his lap.

“I saw before that you’ve got a terrible raised welt on your back. Does it hurt?”

Sexual need muddled his brain further. “No.” Though tomorrow he’d probably be feeling it.