“Let me.”
I put my stuff on the couch and went over to her. As I placed my hands on the muscles of her neck, a prickly sensation traveled up my arms, then settled in my lower gut, close to my dick. Jesus, it was just the back of a neck, I reminded myself, even though it didn’t feel like “just” anything. I couldn’t quite figure out what was so different about it. Or why I liked touching her so much. Or why my body was reacting like minor fireworks had just gone off inside me, spelling YOU WANT HER.
I shoved all that aside for the moment and brushed my thumb against the base of her skull, where the hairline started. But her bare skin was so warm and soft. I liked the way it felt against my fingertips entirely too much as I worked on the tight little knots.
She inhaled sharply, then let out a whimper. More prickling waves went through me, drying my mouth and constricting my lungs until it required some effort to drag in air.
“That feels really good,” she said softly.
“Mm-hmm.” Modulating my breathing so I didn’t end up sounding like some panting pervert, I kept it up because it just felt so good to continue touching her. She smelled great this close—pretty and female, with a hint of something fresh and citrussy. I ran my fingers along the delicate neck bones as she bent her head forward to give me better access.
What would it be like to press my lips there? How sensitive was that spot? How would she react?
She shivered a little, then cleared her throat. “I’m not as young as I used to be,” she said, her voice slightly off—either from the pleasure of the massage or something else. With a long sigh, she pulled away from my ministrations. “Life is unfair,” she added, like she needed to fill the silence with words—any words.
I opened and closed my hands, missing the feel of her skin underneath them. She continued, “I could pull all-nighters three or four days in a row when I was in college and working corporate. I gave away my best years to soul-sucking suits, and they never gave a damn about anybody but themselves.”
An interesting and sad observation from a woman who’d studied finance and economics. Didn’t those disciplines teach how to rape and pillage…er…extract the value out of everything and toss away the reamed-out carcasses? Mir had complained about it in college while studying accounting. But unlike my sister, Emily had quit and moved on to something different. And for that, I gave her credit and respect. It wasn’t always easy to shake up your life to pursue what you want.
Emily’s gaze fell on the bag. “Did you bring your toiletries?”
“No. Something better.” I shot her a generous smile. I was the kind of man who knew how to do give-and-take well. “Food, actually.”
“Food?” She twisted around and faced me, scowling. “Our deal was for showers, not hanging out and eating. I have work to do.”
She looked like an adorably annoyed kid. I wanted to reach over and pull those tightened eyebrows apart, but refrained. “It’s a little thank-you for the book you lent me yesterday.”
The hostility slipped as surprise spread over her pretty bare face like pancake batter poured into a skillet. “Are you serious?”
“Yup. I make a fantastic breakfast,” I said, doing my best not to smirk smugly. Karma wasn’t just a bitch, but it was also nice, when it had my face. “But let me shower first.”
I couldn’t tell if she’d actually consumed any real food since yesterday. Based on the beer bottles and cracker and candy wrappers on the floor around her laptop, the answer was no. She’d said she fell asleep on the couch. She might’ve never left the spot. And that wouldn’t do. I wanted her well fed…and…
Why? You like her?
No, not like, I thought. But because I was a nice guy. And she could use the fuel. Besides, I wanted her to write more funny books, and she couldn’t do that if she was hungry or malnourished…or collapsed in a heap, like me when I burned the candle at both ends a little too long.
I placed the bag on the kitchen counter and walked up the stairs, convinced that Emily was looking at my ass.
Chapter Twelve
Emily
I watched Killian walk up to the shower after announcing his intention to feed me breakfast. He had a great ass, but of course I thought that only as a firm believer of appreciating exceptional assets. The way his butt muscles flexed as he walked…it was like a kind of performance art.
Then I thought about his fingers on my neck and shoulders. They’d felt good. Of course, he’d probably practiced on thousands of other women.
The thought annoyed me for some bizarre reason. Why should I care how many women he’d massaged? It was none of my business.
I shook myself mentally, then went into the kitchen. There was no way Killian was actually planning on making me breakfast. Didn’t I annoy him by telling him not to play his drums? And he’d been definitely less than happy that I grabbed the last tub of Bouncy Bare Monkeys.
Arsenic. He was planning on feeding me arsenic. Then he could have my shower to himself and drum until his head exploded.
I looked into the plastic bag he’d brought. A dozen brown organic eggs. A Ziploc bag with some kind of brittle-looking shredded cheese in orange, pale yellow and off-white. Probably cheddar, Gouda and Parmesan. I stuck my head closer and sniffed.
Smelled okay… But then, what did I know? I’d never smelled arsenic before. And it might not even be arsenic. There were thousands of poisons in the world.
I went to the sofa and picked up the phone I’d stuck under the pillow.
–Me: Help. How do you know if somebody’s trying to poison you?
–Skye: What kind of research is this? I thought your book was rom-com?
–Lucy: Is this slow poisoning? Feeling sicker than normal? Hair falling out in clumps?
–Me: No. It’s just that my next-door drummer brought stuff to make breakfast.
–Lucy: Is he going to eat with you?
I thought back on what I’d seen. He probably knew I couldn’t eat a dozen eggs on my own.
–Me: I guess?
–Skye: Then obviously he’s not going to poison you.
–Me: He could’ve taken an antidote beforehand.
–Lucy: You sure you don’t want to write romantic suspense?
I rolled my eyes. Lucy was convinced I’d be really good at romantic suspense because I could be a bit paranoid. But that was why I wrote rom-com. I wanted to immerse my mind in a fun, awesome fictional world because the real one sucked cow poop.
–Me: I’m sure.
–Skye: Didn’t you say he was hot?
–Me: I said he passed the minimum requirement.
–Lucy: Definitely hot. She didn’t deny it.
I quirked my eyebrows in annoyance and affection. They could be so single-minded.
–Me: How is that relevant?
–Skye: Because if a hot guy uses your shower and makes you breakfast, you should just lie back—metaphorically, of course—and enjoy it.
Et tu, Skye? She was saying what that 911 dispatcher had told me when I called to report Killian for noise pollution. Neither Skye nor Lucy seemed to understand I didn’t want to enjoy it.
Killian was too hot. And he knew it, which always meant trouble. Just ask my mom.
–Lucy: What she said. The world isn’t full of nefarious people. I don’t know why you think that when I’m the one writing about horrible serial killers and you write about nice guys who do nice, sexy things.