My fingertips were cold, my skin so tight that my movements felt unnatural as I dressed for bed in the ultraquiet of the bathroom. Given that I’d thought I would be alone tonight, my nightclothes consisted of a far-too-thin cotton nightshirt that reached the tops of my thighs and boy shorts underwear.
Honestly, I’d shown more in the pool. The man, like countless others, had seen me practically naked on television. Oh, the hubris in taunting him with that little nugget of information. It didn’t feel particularly amusing anymore.
I dithered in the bathroom, rubbing lotion into my feet and legs, waiting for my damn nipples to go down. But my heart kept pounding against the fragile wall of my chest.
Realizing that if I stayed in the bathroom any longer, Lucian might start to wonder what the hell I was doing, I left that certain safety and stepped out into our room. His back was to me as he stared out of the set of glass doors that fronted the sea.
His buttered-toast voice rumbled along my anxious skin. “Wind is starting to pick up—” He turned and fell silent. Crystalline-green eyes ran over me, hot and slow and thorough. The sound of his swallowing, a subtle movement of his throat accompanied by a soft click, pinged in my chest, and my breath hitched.
Lucian closed his eyes tight for one thick moment, as though bracing himself. When he opened them, his eyes were clear and cool. A lie.
“I’ll go wash up.” He strode right past me, a man on a mission.
Good luck with that, Brick.
He hadn’t been exaggerating about the wind, though. A gust blasted the windows and doors so hard they rattled. I hopped into bed, scurrying under the safety of the covers. At least that was what I told myself. That it was the weather I was hiding from. But when Lucian opened the bathroom door a few minutes later, the sound reverberated through me like a shot.
I couldn’t help but stare at him as he quietly went around the room, turning off the lamps I’d ignored in my bid to get to the safety of the bed—which was seriously ironic given that the bed was the least safe place to be.
Like me, he was wearing a ratty T-shirt, one that molded to the planes and contours of his chest. But he’d switched out his suit pants for jeans. My lips quirked as he slowly made his way to the bed, leaving only the lamp on my side table on.
“Are you planning to sleep in those?” I asked.
Lucian froze in the act of pulling back his side of the covers, then straightened and squeezed the back of his neck. “I didn’t pack anything else. I thought I’d be sleeping alone.”
“I know.” Guilt mixed with a weird protective tenderness for this man. Which was ridiculous, I supposed, given that he was more than capable of watching out for himself. “I didn’t either.”
He stood there, staring down at me with a helpless look, his jaw bunching. I sighed and leaned back against the plump pillows. “Just take them off. I won’t be able to get comfortable knowing you’re sleeping in your jeans.”
Some of the old smarmy Lucian sparked in his eyes, and his smile went sideways. “That’s a strange bit of logic, Snoopy.”
“No, it isn’t.” I held up a finger to count my points. “The idea of sleeping under the covers in jeans sounds incredibly uncomfortable; ergo, me knowing you’re in them makes me incredibly uncomfortable.”
“I could sleep over the covers.”
“Lucian. You’re dithering.”
“Dithering.”
“Yes.” I should know. I’d dithered like a master in the bathroom. “Just take them off, and get into the damn bed.”
Again came that sideways smile, like he couldn’t help himself. “There’s that bossiness you’ve been hiding.”
“Hiding?” I snorted, already feeling better. This I could do. “I never hide it. And I think you like my bossy ways just fine, Brick.”
“I do.” Holding my gaze, he unbuttoned his jeans and let them slide to the floor.
Mistake. Huge mistake, ordering him to take those off. God, his thighs. Could you call a man’s thick ripped thighs beautiful? I pressed mine together, trying to suppress the desire to straddle one of those lightly furred, powerful thighs and ride it.
Didn’t work, though.
He was wearing boxer briefs. Dove gray. Softly hugging all that hard . . .
Don’t look. Don’t . . . but the hem of the T-shirt only reached the top of his hips. The rest was lovingly displayed.
My eyes wrenched up to his amused ones. I grumbled and turned to flick off the lamp on my side.
Lucian’s slow chuckle in the dark followed. The bed shifted as he got in, the covers rustling with his movements. Hyperaware, I could only burrow down and try to get comfortable.
“This is fun.” His voice, dry with humor, sounded overloud in the darkened room.
I flipped around to face him, letting my eyes adjust. We’d left the curtains open enough that the room grew a dusky deep blue, and his eyes glimmered in the shadows, his inky hair a smudge on the white pillows.
“That wind is spooky as hell,” I whispered. “We could tell ghost stories.”
He hummed, as if contemplating the idea. God, but he was close. I was so attuned to him I could smell the soap on his skin and the faint mint of his toothpaste. I wanted to snuggle closer, put my mouth on his, and taste it. I clutched my pillow like a lifeline. I was not making the first move. A girl had some pride.
“Speaking of ghosts,” he finally said in a low voice. “Who is Greg?”
I winced, my body tensing.
“I know you didn’t want to talk about it before. And you can tell me to shut it now, if you want.” Concern lined his hard face as his gaze moved over mine. “But the way your friends rallied around you makes me worry. Did this guy hurt you?”
Perhaps it was because I’d told him my dad hit, or maybe it was simply Lucian’s nature to look out for people, but his concern about me ever being hurt warmed my fluttering insides.
“Not physically.” I sighed. “Greg Summerland was my ex.”
The bed jolted. “The quarterback?”
“Yes.” I really hated that Greg was a hero to so many. I sincerely hoped Lucian wasn’t a fan. But he sounded more surprised than awed. I supposed that made sense, since he was a pro athlete as well.
“When I was axed—literally—from the show, I went home to cry on his shoulder and found him screwing a nineteen-year-old girl on my living room floor.”
“Ouch.”
“It didn’t look very comfortable on the knees.”
“Em.” His voice touched me like a caress. I didn’t want sympathy. Not about stupid Greg and his wandering dick.
“What should I say? It was a blow. But I think I should have felt more than rage. He should have broken my heart. But it feels fairly intact.”
Lucian thought it over before speaking. “Good point.”
“I think so,” I said with some cheek.
He started to smile, but then his expression clouded. “Greg is a star athlete.”
“I am aware.”
“I didn’t realize you were familiar with the life.”
“The life being all the craziness of rabid fans and the never-ending travel and practice schedules, you mean?”
“Yeah, that.” He didn’t sound very pleased.