I want to hate him.
I feel Tyler’s soft touch on my arm and I look up to see him shirtless, with nothing but charcoal gray boxer-briefs on. This change makes no sense.
His tattoos are painted all the way up his left arm and some on his right arm, but what really wrecks me are the twin studs on either side of his nipples. Hell. This man does sexy the way most people do breathing. Every. Fucking. Moment.
The nearness of him makes me feel worse and I can hear myself blubbering, saying something about how I should go, even though I’m not coherent enough to put on my own shoes.
“I want to get you in the shower, see if the water pressure can knock some of that gravel loose.” Tyler’s voice is gently coaxing, as if I’m a wounded wild animal. “I’ll help you.”
Tyler tugs at the hem of my shirt and pulls it up over my head, revealing my simple black satin bra that holds less than a handful in each cup. Even for my small hands. I know Tyler’s seen better and I search his eyes for a reaction, but they’re tender and not … hungry.
They don’t want me.
I spiral into even more misery as his close body affects mine and I’m afraid my nipples peak to meet his. I’m afraid he sees this. And he still doesn’t want me.
This is so pathetic.
He pulls me from my perch on the counter and pushes my stretchy black skirt down over my hips without removing my panties. My bra and panties don’t match and I imagine the women who fight over Tyler always match. And their bra cups runneth over.
He leads me to the shower and it’s clear he intends my underwear to be a substitute bathing suit. He takes the stool inside the large shower stall, setting it opposite a built-in bench.
I’m drowning in the humiliation of what Tyler thinks of me, but I can’t push him away while he’s willing to play nurse. I need him and my body hurts too much to do it myself.
Tyler guides me under the rain-can showerhead and I drench myself. It feels like diving through light, bubbly water as it rushes across my skin.
“Stella. You need to let the water work.” He has me sit on the stool just outside the water’s range and he picks up my feet, placing my knees directly under the rushing water. “Put your hands face-up on your thighs.”
I obey and feel the sting as the water reaches the crevices torn open in my skin.
Tyler sits on the built-in bench, my ankles clasped in his hands. When he starts a foot rub I almost lose it, the pleasure of his touch mixing with the pain of the water’s onslaught. I try not to look at the way the water’s soaked his underwear, making every curve within them absolutely apparent to me.
I say I try not to look, but I might be lying.
I’m wearing blue cotton boy shorts that rank far lower on the sexiness scale than what I’m sure Tyler expects from women he dates.
The pins and needles in my wounds intensify as Tyler steadily cranks up the shower’s heat until I can’t stand it. My legs and forearms are bright red from the temperature while my back chills.
“I—I can’t take it anymore,” I tell Tyler, and he immediately releases my feet and bumps down the water temperature a few degrees. He helps me stand, pushing the stool aside and pulling me back into the shower stream for several seconds.
We switch, Tyler moving me just outside of the reach of the spray while he slides under it. I feel him touch my hair with something cold and slimy. He’s shampooing me.
I shake him away. I can’t take this kind of tenderness. “Cut it out. I can do this myself.” I lather fast and scratch the shampoo into my skull, trying to un-feel the gritty press of people and fence above me.
Tyler backs off. He soaps and rinses himself, then steps away from the spray. I rinse my hair and feel the cold draft as he exits the shower enclosure. I peek at him as he dries his hair and shoulders roughly, his underwear dripping on the floor.
Tyler looks up and I’m caught staring. “No peeking, Stella. Turn around.” An impish grin lights his face and I’m thankful that a lighter mood is back.
I turn my back to him as he shucks off his underwear and wraps himself in a towel. “I’m going to my room to get dressed. I left a T-shirt on the counter if you want to wear it while I work on your knees. Come out when you’re ready.”
TWELVE
I hoped Tyler would declare my wounds clean and ready for dressing after the pounding they took in the shower.
I was wrong.
I steel myself for the next round of torture as I dry myself with a fluffy green towel that seems too domestic for Tyler. Did a girlfriend buy it? The thought sours my mood.
Tyler must have a pretty decent black book. Considering how many beautiful women probably throw themselves at him, I’m sure he has plenty of possibilities.
Is that what I am to him? A possibility? Or maybe just a convenience? I die a little at that thought. We haven’t talked about what happened between us when I was here two nights ago and I still sting from his mistrust.
If only my body didn’t betray me. I can want him. I can even get lucky with him. But I have to guard my heart against getting involved. That would ruin me.
I step out of my soaked underwear and pull on Tyler’s soft green T-shirt, which hangs longer than the skirt I wore earlier tonight. I sneak out of the bathroom to the kitchen, hoping he won’t see me if he’s in his bedroom loft.
I keep a pair of panties in my purse for, well, emergencies, and I hide behind the kitchen bar as I pull them on. My legs are still damp and I catch my toe on the elastic around the crotch.
I hear Tyler’s footsteps down the stairs and I’m beyond mortified that he might see me doing a one-legged hop into my panties in his kitchen. I crash into one of the cupboards as I hop but I manage to get everything in the right place—feet on the floor, panties on my ass, Tyler’s shirt covering all my essential bits.
Tyler grins at me and I just know he saw something, but he doesn’t comment. He pulls a sheaf of delivery menus out of a kitchen drawer and hands them to me.
“I’m starving. But I’ve got to get the rest of the gravel out of you before your knees dry up, so get over here.” I clutch the menus and follow Tyler to the couch where he pulls my feet over his lap. My knees are bent up toward him and he inspects them closely.
“Move that light closer, OK? And figure out what you want to eat.” I swivel a gooseneck lamp to point right at my knees.
“Do you want a scalpel, doctor?” I tease.
“The wound is severe. We may have to amputate.” Tyler’s tone is mock-serious but I think he’s trying to distract me from the pain when his tweezers dig for the last few pieces of gravel.
I hold my breath until he gets one, then let it out in a whoosh of relief. He scrapes and digs and I inhale. He holds another shard up triumphantly and I exhale. In and out. I can handle this. The pain makes my skin tingle and I wish I had more vodka.
“Did you pick dinner?” Tyler asks.
I don’t answer immediately because I’m in a breath-holding stage, but I flip through the menus and choose Chinese. Once Tyler lifts the tweezers again, I can talk. “How does ten-ingredient Chow Mein sound? Medium spicy?”
“Good. And get broccoli beef. Extra spicy.”
“What do you want for your side? Noodles or fried rice?”
“Neither. But get extra fortune cookies.”
“You want steamed rice to soak up your sauce?”
“Too many carbs.” Tyler focuses on picking another piece of grit from my knee but a bubble of laughter bursts from my chest.
“Ty, I hate to tell you this, but with your body, the last thing you have to do is worry about carbs.”
Tyler’s brow furrows and his expression darkens. “I always worry,” he mutters. It’s a strange comment coming from someone who’s known for his killer abs. Or maybe worrying about food is how he got this way.