His head might explode before dawn, to say nothing of his balls.
The only solution was to escape into the shower and spend a minute or two trying to relieve the pressure with his fist.
Erin peeked at him in the elevator, daunted by the grim look on his face. Her decision to seduce Connor McCloud was signed and sealed but the actual execution of the seduction was still a scary question mark. She'd thought to make some progress when he opened up about his family, but when she started bawling like a ninny, he clammed right up again. Just thinking about his mother made her throat tighten up.
He looked tense, almost angry, a muscle pulsing in his jaw. He preceded her to the door, gestured for her to wait, and pulled out a gun from the back of his chinos. He checked the room before he let her come in, and silently reattached the weird devices onto the door and window.
"What are those?" she asked.
"Alarms. I got them from my friend Seth. He calls them squealers."
"What a fortress," she murmured.
His eyes hardened. "They can't hurt." He flipped a switch, and a tiny red light on the device attached to the window began to blink.
She felt so shy. She would never work up the courage to come on to him when he looked so fierce.
He threw his coat on the bed. "Do you need the bathroom for the next few minutes? I want to take a quick shower."
"Go ahead," she said.
He disappeared into the bathroom. She listened to the water run. He hadn't locked the bathroom door. If she really were a bold, naughty seductress, she would just shuck her clothes and join him.
And then? She had all kinds of fantasies, but so little practical experience. The shower pounded, like the rain that pounded against the picture window, the surf that pounded on the beach below. She buried her face in her hands and moaned in frustration. His big, gorgeous body was stark naked and soaking wet in there. And she was sitting out here.
A few minutes later Connor came out, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, his hair tangled around his shoulders. He rummaged through his duffel, pulling out a fine-tooth comb with at least a third of the teeth missing. He dragged it through his hair. Erin flinched in protest at the sound of hairs stretching and snapping. "Ouch! Stop that!"
He looked startled. "Stop what?"
"Stop torturing your hair! You'll ruin it!"
He gave her a doubtful look. "Uh, my hair is used to it, Erin."
She shook her finger at him. "You have dry, split ends because you stretch it and break it with that awful comb. I've had long hair all my life. I know how to treat long hair. And how not to."
"But it's tangled. What am I supposed to do? Leave it in dreads?"
"Have you ever seen a hair conditioner commercial on TV?"
"I never did get into the habit of watching TV" he admitted.
She slid off the bed and unzipped her suitcase. "You need a deep conditioning pack. And you're in luck, because I've got some with me."
His eyes narrowed. "Uh, Erin. I don't know how to tell you this, but I'm really not the deep conditioning pack type."
"Then it stands to reason that you're not the long hair type, either," she said. "Want me to cut it short? I brought my good scissors."
"Oh, God," he muttered.
"Choose," she said briskly. "One or the other."
He took a step back. "You're scaring me."
She pulled her toiletries case out of the suitcase. "Don't be afraid, Connor. Just give in. You can't control everything, remember? You'll just hurt yourself." She pulled the scissors out with a flourish. "Voila!"
"That's not fair. Don't throw my words back in my face."
"Oh, don't be silly." She felt more centered now that she had a goal to accomplish. It let her natural bossiness spring to the fore. "Putting goop on your hair will only make it softer and shinier. It will have no discernible effect upon your virility."
"Promise?" he said.
"Yes," she said rashly. "I promise."
There was a hot flash in his eyes. "Want to put it to the test?"
The scissors dropped from her suddenly numb fingers and thumped onto the bed. Yes, she wanted to say, let's test it right now.
The words wouldn't come out. The silence just got heavier.
He broke eye contact. "Sorry," he said. "Forget I said that."
He sat down on the bed. She stared at his broad back, at the thick, tangled mass of water-darkened blond hair that she'd always dreamed of touching. She wanted so badly to fuss over him and care for him. Just some small, comforting thing, no matter how insignificant.
"Connor. Let me do this," she pleaded. "Let me fix your hair."
He hesitated, and let out a long sigh. "Oh, what the hell."
"Excellent." Erin sprang into action, gathering scissors, shampoo, conditioner, plastic ice bucket, and comb. She kicked off her shoes and flung open the bathroom door. "Come on in here. We'll get started."
He waited in the bathroom doorway while she set the water running to warm it up. She folded a towel and draped it so that the chilly porcelain tub wouldn't touch his back.
"I can do this myself." His voice was tense. "Just tell me how."
"No, I want to," she fussed. "Take your shirt off. It'll just get wet."
He hesitated for so long that she looked up at him, puzzled.
His face was tight and miserable. He was clutching the bottom of his T-shirt like a bashful little boy.
She smoothed the towel into place. "Connor? What's the matter?"
He would not meet her eyes. "I don't look so good right now. The scars. They, uh… look like hell."
Dear God, how ironic. He was insecure about his body. She covered up a rush of startled tears with a forced laugh.
She went over to him, seized the bottom of his T-shirt and tugged it up.
He seized her hands. "Erin, I—"
"Shhh," she soothed. "Up with your arms."
He let her peel the shirt off. Her breath stuck in her lungs. He was incredibly beautiful. Racehorse lean and broad and sinewy, his ropy muscles were thick and tough, every finely cut detail showing beneath his smooth, pale golden skin. The burn scar blazed down over his ribs, left shoulder, arm, and hand. It chilled her to see how close he had come to death. "God, Connor," she whispered.
"Told you." His voice was colorless. "Pretty bad, huh?"
She brushed her fingertips across his shoulder. He jerked away.
"I'm sorry. Does it still hurt?" she asked anxiously.
He shook his head. He still wouldn't meet her eyes.
She wanted to memorize every dip and curve with her hands and mouth. The scar intensified his masculine beauty, by poignant contrast.
She could lean forward right now, press her lips against his hard chest. Nuzzle that whorl of flat, dark blond hair. Take that taut male nipple between her teeth and suckle it. She took an unsteady step backwards. "Sit by the tub and lean your head back." Her voice shook.
He did so, leaning his head back and stretching his long legs out in front of him. She stepped into the tub and sat down next to him.
"I'm going to shampoo your hair first," she told him.
He lifted his eyebrows. "I just washed it."
"Not with my good shampoo you didn't." She picked up the ice bucket and poured hot water slowly over his hair. "Scoot back further so I can hold your head in my hands."
He arched his back with a sigh and closed his eyes.
Shampoo lather foamed, dripping off his head, off her hands. It plopped into the hot water that lapped her ankles and floated there like whipped cream, like cumulus clouds.
Heat and steam and the slick, moist sounds of her hands caressing his hair put her in a sensual trance. She could have gone on caressing his beautifully shaped head forever. Admiring his ears, the thick hair that slid between her fingers, his dark, gold-tipped lashes. His sharp cheekbones, the grim lines that bracketed his mouth. Flinging his head back like that made the tendons stand out in his sinewy neck.