Seth (Damage Control #3) (2 page)

This is worth the pain.

“Hang on,” she says, and without the noise of the rain, her voice’s soft and exotic. Musical. I can’t place her accent. “We’ll be there in two minutes.”

I unglue my tongue from the roof of my mouth and nod. The heater is warming up the air fast, at least, and I’m not shivering my bones loose anymore. I work on keeping my eyes straight ahead as she drives off, on the wipers sluicing water off the windbreaker, and on the street, the pools of light cast by the lampposts and shop fronts.

She parks outside a white building, three stories high with big lit-up windows and trees on the sidewalk. Red maples, their leaves already turning ruddy with the onset of fall. We had them outside out house, too, when I was little.

Feels like centuries ago.

She turns to me, flashes me a brief smile. “Home sweet home. I hope, uh…” She turns the engine off and sticks her tongue out to the side. Makes me want to laugh. Or maybe I’m just nervous. “Hope this is okay. I may have pressured you a little to come over. I just didn’t feel okay leaving you there, you know? But if you change your mind, I can still drive you back to your place, or call a cab for you.”

I blink at her. She’s… sweet. Don’t know why it catches me by surprise.

“It’s fine,” I mutter. “Honest.”

The thought of going back to my cold and empty apartment right now is damn depressing.

The smile flashes again—small, white teeth, the canines slightly crooked.

Charming. Cute.

Hot.

I lick my lips. God, I want to kiss her. This is fucked-up. So instead, I throw my door open and start the slow process of getting my sorry ass out of her car.

“Let me help you.” She comes around and grabs my arm, steadying me as I try to find my footing. Her grip is shockingly strong for such a small girl.

She puts the walking stick in my hand and closes the door as I take a few tentative steps, hissing and leaning on the stick when my knee shoots fire up my leg.

Ow, dammit.

When she puts a slender arm around my back, I suck in a sharp breath—not from pain this time. Her touch lights up a different kind of fire in my blood. I was semi-hard during the car ride, and now I’ve gone to diamond-hard in two seconds flat.

Oblivious, she helps me to the entrance of the building and punches a code into the keypad by the door. It clicks and we enter into the dark but dry lobby. Fuck, it’s cold in here. Her arm is a naked flame wrapped around me.

The elevator carriage is there, and we ride up, pressed together, side by side. I shouldn’t like this so much. My dick shouldn’t like it so much, either. I shouldn’t get used to it.

She’s being nice. But she has a boyfriend. And that’s not the only problem.

Dammit.

We step out onto the landing, and she unlocks the door, pushes it open and flicks on the lights. I hobble inside, taking in her living room—warm and cozy, with a red sofa and armchair, huge black and white posters of houses and horses and… a dancer?

She’s moving around the room, lighting another lamp in a corner, opening the window a crack. Her movements are graceful, her legs slender, and her ass is a perfect heart, full enough to fill my hands.

My mouth is dry. I desperately lick my lips and maneuver my uncooperative body sideways to hide the hard-on tenting the front of my soaked jeans. In the very last second, I remember that maybe I shouldn’t drop my wet ass on her furniture and hesitate, half-bent over, leaning on my stick.

“Should I…?” I glance around, trying to find a safer place to land, but fuck, my leg is killing me and won’t hold me up for much longer. “Manon?”

She turns around, surprise flitting over her face. “What? Oh, I’m sorry! Only my mother and Cassie call me that.” She bites her lips. “Give me a sec, I’ll be right back.”

On the plus side, the longer I stand, the more pain I’m in, and the more my erection flags. By the time she’s back with a plastic sheet, I don’t have to hide my crotch anymore. All my focus is on staying on my feet.

She sits down and spreads it beside her. Pats it in invitation.

Oh yeah, at last. I hobble over and sink down with a groan. The ceiling spins a little, and I can’t help but lean back and squeeze my eyes shut until I’m sure I won’t toss my cookies all over her sofa.

“Shit, you don’t look so hot,” she whispers. “Let me bring you some water—”

I reach out blindly, find her arm and grip it. “Gimme a sec. I’ll be okay.”

“I’m so sorry,” she says, her voice choked, “for all of this. If I’d been more careful—”

“Not your fault.” I crack an eye open. It’s safe. The ceiling has stopped moving. “It’s been a shitty couple of months, that’s all.”

“Why?” She doesn’t shake off my hold on her, instead bending and grabbing with her other hand something from the floor.

A first-aid kid.

I release her anyway—because what the hell are you doing, Seffers? Don’t be an asshole by taking advantage—and realize I’ve smeared blood on her arm.

“Fuck.”

She looks up, dark brows arching in question, and I gesture vaguely at her bloodied arm. She smiles. “It’s okay.”

The fuck it is.

“So what do I call you, if I don’t call you Manon?” Man, her eyes are the prettiest forest green with golden flecks and long lashes, and… damn, I shouldn’t be staring into them.

“Oh, I don’t mind it. You can call me that, if you like.”

I fucking love her name. Of course I wouldn’t admit it even if she tortured me with a Disney movie.

She takes my hand, and I flinch a little. Not even sure why. She’s gentle as she dabs ointment on the scrapes. “How’s your leg?”

I grunt.

“We should ice it. Let me finish with your hands, and you should undress.”

“What?” There I go again. Caveman. Not that I’d mind undressing with her.

“You’re wet, you’ll catch a cold. I’ll give you something dry to wear.”

Ah… right.
“Your boyfriend’s clothes?”

She narrows those pretty eyes at me. “Okay, you know my name, and you know I have a boyfriend. How?”

“You’re Cassie’s friend.”

“Yeah, I am.” Her mouth twists. “And you are?”

“You don’t remember me? I’m crushed.” I put a hand to my chest melodramatically. “I’m Seth. Told you, I’m a friend of Jesse and Micah. Jesse is…”

“… the guy Cassie kissed against his will at Asher’s wedding. Almost caused a nasty break up between Jesse and his girlfriend.”

“Yeah.” I look down as she cleans my other palm. Her hands are small and fine, her skin so much paler than mine and flawless. Smooth like silk.

She puts everything back in the first-aid kit and puts it down on the carpet, her lashes throwing long shadows on her cheeks. She smells of rain and vanilla.

“I’m going to change.” She stands up. “I’ll bring you a towel and clothes.”

I nod and wipe a hand over my mouth as she walks out. Fuck, the thought of her undressing in the next room is driving me crazy. I’m pretty sure what I’ll be dreaming of tonight. It wouldn’t be the first time I wake up with my hand on my dick and images of her naked body flashing in front of my eyes.

But now I have her scent, the feel of her soft skin, the color of her eyes lodged in my mind. It’s gonna be a mega-porn production.

Goddamn.

Manon

Honestly, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m still in shock. I almost ran over a man. Sure, the visibility was bad, and my mind was on other things.

Like my meeting with my academic advisor. Like what to do with my life now that my dream has been shattered for one last, final time. What I always wanted to do, to be… It won’t happen.

Plus, I got a text from Fred letting me know he can’t meet me tonight because he has music practice.

It just about killed me, for so many reasons. I mean, I should have practice, too—dance practice, which won’t happen, oh God… And at the very least, when I told him I needed to see him he should ask why, right?

If he really was interested in me. Like he says he is.

Like I am in
him
.

I stumble into my bedroom, kick off my shoes and pull off my wet clothes with angry motions. I needed to talk to him tonight, ask his opinion. Be comforted.

Irrational, I know. He has to work. And we’re not together. Not really. Not yet. I mean, he asked me out, but we’ve barely started dating. So instead, I’m here with…

Seth.

I pull on yoga leggings and a long T-shirt, thinking about what happened. How scared I was when I got out of the car and found him lying there, in the rain. How worried I was when he could barely walk.

How different he is from Fred. Rugged, where Fred is cute. Bulky where Fred is slender. Dark where Fred is pale and blond. Seth’s all dark hair, dark brows, dark stubble, dark eyes. Black studs and silver bars in his ears. Tanned skin. Big shoulders, huge biceps.

Frowning, I rummage through my closet for men’s clothes. Not Fred’s, of course. We haven’t even kissed yet, let alone leave clothes at each other’s place. But my dad left some old clothes here when he helped me move in and paint the apartment, and I think…

Ah, there.
Grabbing the old draw-string pants and T-shirt with paint stains on it, and a towel from the bathroom, I hurry back to the living room.

I stop. He’s sprawled on the sofa, head propped on the backrest, eyes closed. With his broad cheekbones and that strong jaw, the full, soft mouth, he’s sort of… handsome.

…Nah.
Stop the crazy thinking, Manon. He’s just a stranger on your couch, a stranger you almost hit with your car.

Not handsome. Not at all. Nope.

No way.

Shaking my head at myself, I drop the clothes on the sofa, startling him. He jerks away from me and knocks his elbow into the back of the sofa.

Ow.

Crap, he really
was
asleep. He looks tired, and this is all my fault. Guilt is eating away at me. Poor guy.

“Found some clothes,” I say when he blinks blearily at me and rubs both hands over his eyes. “I hope they fit. They’re my dad’s. He won’t mind.”

He takes the towel and starts rubbing his hair. I lay out the clothes meanwhile, trying not to look at the way his dark hair is getting all messy and spiky, and…

“Your dad living around here?”

“No. Not that far, though. Davenport.” I sense the weight of his questioning gaze, and I force a smile as I look up from straightening the T-shirt as best I can. “My mom is French. She lives in France.”

Both his dark brows shoot up, and he opens his mouth to say something, but I beat him to it.

“Let me help you get out of those clothes.”

His mouth flaps. He snaps it closed, but his eyes go round. “Help me?”

“So that you don’t have to get up.”

“I’m…okay. I got this. Really.”

Wait, is he blushing? Is that color in his cheekbones?

It’s…cute.

Oh God.

“I’ll leave you to it, then, and start some dinner.” Turning around, I head to the kitchen and open the fridge to check what I could cook up. At least, that’s where my thoughts should be at.

Not on the guy in the other room. Not wondering what his bare chest looks like, what he looks like naked.

Because the one I want is Fred, and that’s all there is to it.

***

When I walk back inside fifteen minutes later, water for the pasta heating on the stove and the sauce simmering, I fully expect to find him asleep again.

He’s not.

He’s fumbling with the belt of his jeans, his sodden T-shirt already off. He’s bare-chested, yes, and that stops me in my tracks—not because his chest, shoulders and arms are thick with muscle and sculpted like a work of art, no, that’d be crazy—but because of the ink covering them.

A lot of ink. Dark, twisted, tangled—faces and demons and beasts on his chest and shoulders. And a snake, I realize. A snake on one shoulder, fangs dripping, forked tongue lolling.

The men I’ve known in my life were never covered in tattoos like him – and such scary ones, too. It’s a little disturbing.

And fascinating.

Maybe that’s why it takes me a while to realize he’s struggling to push down his pants and not quite managing. His teeth are gritted, and his face is white.

Crap, he’s in pain.

That snaps me out of my slight daze—a daze I have no job being in—and I hurry over to help him.

“Here.” I kneel on the carpet and start on the ankles. “Let me.”

He hasn’t even taken off his boots, and really, Manon, if his leg hurts so much, how is he going to do this on his own? I shouldn’t have listened to him when he said he could handle it.

I take the boots and wet socks off. He’s still trying to push down his jeans, hands shaking. I really don’t like how pale he is.

“Stop pushing them down like that,” I mutter. “The fabric bunches up and makes it harder to get them off. Let me do it, it will be easier from this end.”

“Okay.” He lets his hands drop at his sides and puffs out a long breath. I work the sodden fabric over his feet and gently pull. He lifts his pelvis slightly to allow the pants to come off. He’s wearing black boxer briefs underneath, and for some reason my face gets hot at the sight of them.

And the bulge between his legs. Yeah, not looking at that. At all.

His legs. Safer place to look. Nicely muscled thighs, which are revealed as the jeans come off, really thick and cut, and…

A knee brace, the black material digging into the flesh.

“You said your leg was broken. When did it happen?”

“Two months ago. Right after Asher’s wedding. Had the cast taken off two weeks ago.”

Shit. No wonder he has trouble walking. “And the knee brace?”

He hesitates. “Long story.”

Huh.

“Well, broken bones can affect joints, and your knee is swollen. Need to ice it.” I pull his jeans all the way off. “I think I have one in the freezer.”

He’s hunched over, hands braced on the sofa. Silent.

Without waiting for an answer, I jump to my feet and rush back to the kitchen. To check the pot, I tell myself. That’s the only reason.

The water is boiling, so I throw the pasta in, and I turn off the heat under the sauce pan. I take out dishes, silverware, paper napkins and glasses. Can’t remember the last time I had dinner here with someone.