Fighting Dirty

“Don’t ask me to go.” For good measure, she admitted, “When I’m alone, I can’t stop thinking about the robbery and that man and how he—”

“Shh. That’s over.” There, outside the bedroom, while stepping in against her, Armie caught each of her hands and pinned them to the wall at either side of her head. “You’re okay.”

The press of his body all along her length caused her breath to hitch. Especially when his solid erection nudged her belly. He wore only the silly boxers, and she could feel each and every long, firm muscle through her thin T-shirt and low-riding jeans.

His gaze drifted over her face, lingered on her mouth, then down her throat to the tops of her breasts. The side of his nose brushed hers and she could smell the whiskey on his breath. “You don’t know what you’re asking for, Stretch.”

This time the nickname didn’t faze her. “Yes, I do.”

His lips grazed her bruised jaw, over to her earlobe. “Rissy...” he said, sounding pained.

“I’m asking for you, Armie. Just you.”

He hesitated, then thrust himself away from her. “Not that easy and you know it. No one comes to my bed wanting just me.”

“I would,” she whispered. “I do.”

He groaned. “Jesus, I’m drunk.”

If that was true, and she was pretty sure it was, then it wouldn’t be ethical of her to take advantage of him. He wanted to resist her and she wanted to wear him down.

But she didn’t want to dupe him into doing anything that he’d later regret.

She gave him a long look and went into the bedroom.

He laughed, rubbed his tired eyes and muttered, “I tried.”

“Yes, you did.” To get him to join her, she asked, “Would it help you to relax if I told you all I want is to sleep? Beside you, I mean, because I honestly don’t want to be alone.” And she was pretty sure he didn’t want to be alone, either.

Full of regret, he shook his head. “Sorry, babe, but I can’t. I’ll crash on the couch.”

Babe? That was a new one, but again, he’d had too much to drink and wasn’t firing on all cylinders. “It’s going to be crowded with both of us out there.”

When he stood there—neither leaving nor making a move to stay—Merissa decided to try to sway him. She reached for the snap on her jeans.

Armie didn’t look away from her eyes, but he breathed harder.

She dragged down the zipper, then slipped her hands into the jeans along her hips and slowly pushed down the tight material until she could step free.

His nostrils flared.

She dropped the jeans over a chair, pulled back the comforter on his bed and, full of uncertainty, slipped beneath the covers. To make room for Armie, she scooted over to the middle, looked at him and waited.

“If I wasn’t drunk,” he whispered, staring at her, “I might be able to do this.” He edged closer, caught the comforter and dragged it away from her body. His blistering gaze surveyed every inch of her, leaving her singed. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” He’d been prepared to die for her. She trusted him completely.

A deep, harsh groan tore from his throat, and then he was in the bed, gathering her close, one hand in her hair, the other low on her back, almost to her derriere. Their legs tangled, his hairy and muscular, hers smooth and slim. She felt soft chest hair against her cheek, and the heavy bumping of his heartbeat.

“Armie?”

“Shh. Give me a minute.”

“Okay.” He smelled so good and felt so nice, she didn’t mind just being close with him. But as the time slipped by, she started to wonder if he’d fallen asleep. The bedside lamp was on and the comforter remained at the foot of the bed.

Levering back from his hold, she tipped up her face and found his eyes closed, his brows lightly pinched.

She scooted upward to kiss the injury to his head, and that’s when she saw the restraint hanging loosely from his headboard. She couldn’t quite look away from it, either, now that she’d spotted it.

“Armie?”

His dark lashes left shadows over his high cheekbones. “Hmm?”

Now she frowned, too. “Are you playing possum?”

“Concentrating.”

“On what?”

His hand slid farther down, over one cheek of her behind. He stroked with his thumb, fondled, then returned to the small of her back. Voice raspy, he said, “Not doing more of that.”

After that sizzling, sensual caress, it took her a second to regain her voice. “Oh.” She cleared her throat. “Can we talk about this tie hanging from your bedpost?”

His eyes opened, dark, compelling. “We could talk about you losing this shirt.”

That low, rough voice enticed as much as the suggestion. “Oh, Armie,” she whispered. “If you weren’t drunk, I would.”

“If I wasn’t drunk, I wouldn’t ask.”

Probably true. She sighed.

As if to convince her, he said, “I’m a better cocksman when inebriated.”

The laugh almost burst out. “Cocksman?”

He nudged his erection against her. “Like a swordsman, but with my dick.”

“Yes.” She had to work at keeping the smile at bay. “I understood the reference.”

The hand on her back began toying with her shirt. “Want me to show you?”

“I want you to explain the restraint.”

His eyes went heavy, sensual. “I use them to tie up frisky ladies so I can do as I please—and they love it.”

“Is that one of the things women ask of you? To be tied down?” Being at Armie’s mercy—she wouldn’t mind that. In fact, her toes curled just talking about it.

“Yeah.” He drew her down for a kiss. “They beg for it.”