On the other side of the TV, she noticed two empty protein shake containers. He must’ve gone back down to the mini-mart because he was starving, too.
Way to go, Killinger. Could you be any more selfish or paranoid?
She rummaged in the bag, took out the supplies, setting up on the desk beside a bright lamp, and put on latex gloves.
Aiden emerged from the bathroom. He stood in the doorway with a towel wrapped around his waist and another in his hand as he dried his hair, looking annoyingly delicious.
Her throat went bone-dry.
He crossed the room, shoved the chair out of the way and sat on the edge of the desk.
This wasn’t the first time she’d seen his broad, muscled chest, those nicely formed pecs and washboard abs completely bare, but it was the first time she’d been close enough to stick her tongue out and lick every toned, sculpted muscle.
Perfection.
He was striking, had a sparkling energy that was warm, powerful, sexual. A magnetic presence that drew lesser objects into the heat of his sun.
Three minutes after they met and talked one-on-one, she would’ve dropped her panties for him, but he’d had a girlfriend at the time.
A saving grace that had allowed their friendship to blossom, given them a chance to become family. But looking at him now, butterflies fluttered in her belly. She had to squeeze her knees together to keep from spreading her legs apart.
She grabbed saline solution and the towel from his hand to catch the runoff. “Ready?”
Aiden gave a curt nod.
This was going to hurt him, and she hated that, but there was no way around it. Had to be done. She squeezed the saline into the wound to irrigate it and rinse off the last of the hemostatic powder.
When the liquid hit his skin, he gave a sharp hiss through gritted teeth.
“Sorry about that.”
The wound went from oozing before the irrigation to bleeding in earnest.
She dabbed it with sterile gauze and covered the area with an anesthetic spray.
After giving the painkiller a minute to work, she held his arm, sutured his wound, giving him small, neat stitches, and then snipped the thread. She applied antibiotic ointment and put a self-adhesive gauze pad on to protect it.
“Finished,” she said, tugging off the gloves and chucking them in the trash.
Thank goodness that was done.
Being so close to him, with all that bare skin exposed, and touching him had turned her insides molten. This was testing her sanity and tempting her in new ways.
She stepped around him to put away the supplies.
“Thank you.” He caught her wrist and pulled her in between his legs.
As she leaned into his touch, her heart remembered the rule about keeping some physical distance with Aiden, but her libido seemed to have shredded the memo. She dragged her gaze down his sleek, tightly muscled torso to the unmistakable bulge tenting his towel.
How was that possible while getting stitches?
Then again, Aiden was the most remarkable man she knew.
Charlie looked up at him, her pulse beginning to race. Carnal images of them tangled up in bed together floated through her head.
Desire was etched on his handsome face, in the sexy grin on his full mouth. He exuded sex—raw, sheet-clenching sex—or standing this close to him, with his body on display and a bed a few stumbles behind her, simply made her think about all the ways they could pleasure each other.
For one night.
She pressed her palms to his smooth chest and wicked warmth spiraled through her. Touching him excited her; it was a heady intoxication, but she couldn’t shake the wariness that came along with it. She was terrified to want this, terrified of how it’d change things.
He stroked her damp hair and caressed her face with the back of his hand. His eyes, glinting with sensual promise, blazed into hers, incinerating her doubts and fears one by one. She fought not to squirm while her thighs tingled and every cell in her body perked up.
She wanted to blame this craving to feel his skin on hers, this inexplicable draw to him, on the shots of vodka, on their near-death experiences.
But that was a lie too big even for her to swallow.
He wrapped his arm around her waist and brought her flush against him. With the pad of his thumb he traced a searing path across her lips. The heat of contact had her melting faster than butter in a hot skillet.
His eyes were so dark and fathomless she could dive in and never find the bottom.
The air was thick and heavy, charged with an undeniable current like flammable gas. One lit match was all it would take for a total disaster.
Hell, static electricity might do it.
“I want you.” His voice was husky and full of gravelly heat.
Sparks of arousal shivered along her nerves. As intense as their attraction was, there was understanding, too, a comfort in being known, and she had to protect that at all costs.
“I’ve had a lot to drink,” she said. “If I don’t remember this tomorrow, promise not to hold it against me.”
Lies. Well, she did have a few shots, but she was far from toasted, and she’d remember every scintillating detail of being with this man. But they needed an out, a sort of parachute. Pull the rip cord and they’d land safely, nothing broken, and go back to normal.
His eyes narrowed, sending unease skittering down her spine. He studied her, and she met his measuring gaze, unblinkingly.
“So you’d only sleep with me if you could call it a slipup,” he finally said, and she stilled at his tone, the gravity in his eyes. “Blame it on too much alcohol?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Damn, he knew her too well. But he made it sound horrible and unforgivable. A betrayal of the worst kind. “You’re curious about what it’d be like for us to have sex. I am, too, but once our curiosity is satisfied, we need to be able to go back to the way things were.”
“Why do things need to go back? Why can’t they move forward? As nature intended. I’m not curious about sleeping with you. I’m interested in being with you.”
Her heart tripped into her throat as she felt the blood drain from her face. For a moment she didn’t know what to say, silence swelling between them, but she gathered what wits she had left. “How many people have successful relationships in our office? How many are divorced, separated? How many in SOG, where we’re constantly on call and have to drop everything to respond in six hours? This job, this lifestyle isn’t conducive to matrimony or monogamy.”
He dropped his hand from her face.
“The odds of anything romantic between us succeeding are bad enough,” she added, her mind spinning, redirecting wherever she could that didn’t lead to the painful truth. “If we became a couple it would muck up work.”