Bend (11 page)

Mia’s lips are pinched. “I honestly just need help. It wasn’t a come-on. For Pete’s sake.”

Every muscle in my body feels like an overly tightened guitar string, ready to snap. “Were you listening a minute ago when I said we needed to talk? Because I thought it was clear I meant we need to figure out how we can keep being just friends.”

“What does one have to do with the other? I only need you to help with my shirt and bra. Why is it a problem?”

Because I don’t trust myself, that’s why.
I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath. My head is about to burst. I need to calm down.

“You can’t seriously be that clueless,” I say, putting all my strength into keeping my voice low and controlled.

She widens her eyes at me, and I could probably never prove it, but I’m pretty sure she’s faking innocence. “You can keep your eyes closed if that’d help.”

Right, because then I’d have to feel my way around her body, and that would be so much better.

To hell with it. I’ll help her one last time, and then I’m outta here. There’s no point in waiting around to have a talk, to try and square things up; that much is clear. I need to take a step back and get some distance from her, because I just can’t deal with this right now.

I’m pretty good at compartmentalizing. It’s a useful skill to have in my line of work. So I’ll help her undress, and it doesn’t have to affect me any more than assisting a patient with the same task.

“Fine.” I gesture at her bedroom. “Let’s go.”

She pivots and leads the way to the other room. Making a detour to her dresser, she fishes clothes out of a drawer. And then she goes into the bathroom.

I follow. It’s not a room I’m familiar with or particularly comfortable in, seeing as it’s got all her personal stuff. Like creams and lotions and makeup and hairbrushes and combs and hair products and a hair dryer—and a little round and pink birth control box. Sitting right there on the counter between her double sinks.

I take a deep breath and look away.

She puts down her change of clothes—black shorts, a purple tank top, plain white panties, and a matching bra. Okay, so that’s…good. If she’d picked out some sort of skimpy, lacy underwear, I’d have to call bullshit on the “this isn’t a come-on” thing, because no chick I’ve ever known wears that stuff unless she’s expecting to get laid.

Coming over to stand before me, Mia raises her arms above her head. She’s watching me expectantly, silently.

Compartmentalize.
This isn’t a big deal. It’s really not. My hands feel like they’re made of wet clay as I reach for the bottom of her T-shirt. I want to pull it up quickly and get this over with, but I might hurt her hand.

So I take it easy, inching the shirt up until her abdomen is bare. Then up some more, revealing her bra, which is also plain and sensible, this one black. It fits her tightly and pushes her breasts up, and my attention gets stuck on the gentle swell of creamy skin. I can see myself ripping off her bra. Putting my lips on her skin, drawing a nipple into my mouth.

My dick stirs to life.

Goddamn it.

When I reach her arms, she starts lowering them, slowing down to slide her injured hand through the sleeve opening. I let go of the shirt, and she pulls it the rest of the way off with her good hand. I’m trying to focus on breathing. It’s not a big deal. I’ve seen her in a bikini before. This isn’t any different.

My dick doesn’t care. It grows harder, like it’s saying,
Nuh-uh, buddy. You’re not fooling me. That’s Mia, and she’s half-naked.

I need to get out of this room. My voice sounds gravelly to my ears as I say, “Turn around.”

She complies without a word. Unsnapping her bra should be easy from this position, but my fingers aren’t cooperating. Fumbling with the clasps, I feel like a ten-thumbed klutz.

When I finally manage to undo them, Mia swivels back around to face me. She’s keeping her arm across her chest so the bra stays in place, and I didn’t know I could feel so relieved and so disappointed about the same thing all at once.

I want her to let it go.

I don’t want her to let it go.

I’m being split in half.

“Thanks,” she says. Her cheeks look flushed, her pupils are dilated, and she’s breathing through barely parted lips.

Great. I’m free to go.

But my limbs aren’t getting the message. I hear myself as if from a distance as I sneer, “Did you need me to do anything else? Wash your hair? Shave your legs?”

She narrows her eyes at me, and a twinge of apprehension twists in my gut. I probably shouldn’t piss her off right now. Fighting with myself is bad enough.

A few seconds tick by before she fires back, “No, but I could probably use some help drying off after I’m done. And putting my bra back on.”

Jesus.
I open my mouth to tell her no can do, but suddenly, while still holding my gaze, she slips the bra strap off her left shoulder. The other side follows, and the garment drops to the floor.

And then I’m staring at her naked tits. My pulse kicks off in a gallop, and blood rushes from my head. I can’t tear my eyes away from her, from those round and perky breasts of hers with their dark-pink nipples that, while I’m watching, are pebbling and puckering into hard little nubs.

Fuck, she’s beautiful—stunning and sexy and seductive.

My hands are twitching, aching to touch her, and my cock is pulsing with the need to be inside her.

She’s slaying me. And she most likely knows it, is probably doing it on purpose.

“You know,” she says while she hooks her thumb into her yoga pants and starts to push them down, one side at a time while wriggling her hips, “I was going to be all nice and respectful and not take off the rest of my clothes until you’d left the room. But you just had to.”

Yeah. I just had to. And as I watch her pants slide down into a puddle around her ankles, I can’t even regret it. Stepping out of the pants, she immediately goes to work on her panties, which are also black and resemble bikini bottoms. She removes them with impressive speed given her handicap.

And then she’s completely undressed. The fluorescent vanity lights hide nothing. I can see all of her, from the long and toned legs to the small, thin strip of hair between them. The slight flare of her hips, curving up into her thin waist. I slide my gaze up farther, past her perfect fucking tits and up to her face.

She’s looking at me, her sea-green eyes flashing with challenge and spite. Her hair, an unruly frame around all that fire and and ice. I reach for the wall for balance, because I feel like I’m losing hold on my equilibrium. And because I need to grab something that’s not her.

Turning away from me, she crosses to the bathtub, leans down, and twists the faucet. I’ve never seen a more staggering view in my life. Her back is arched and her ass is sticking out. It’s the ass that does me in. Full and shapely, it seems to be taunting me, teasing me with what it’s hiding. With what I’d get a complete and magnificent view of if only she’d bend over some more.

Bend over more, Mia. Just a little more.

She doesn’t. She just tests the water temperature, and then she steps into the tub and disappears behind the shower curtain.

And I’m left standing there with a racing heartbeat and a raging erection. My dick is pulsing and throbbing in near agony, my breathing so rapid and so shallow that I’m not sure the air is actually reaching my lungs.

With a ragged exhalation, I sag against the wall, twisting around and bending my neck and squeezing my eyes shut. The glossy, uneven surface feels cool and hard against my forehead, and I’m battling a sudden urge to bang my head on the wall. Because actual pain would distract me from how much I want to peel off my own clothes and go in after her.

I need to leave. Right now.

Go. Start moving. Go, go, go.

My legs aren’t listening. On the other side of the shower curtain, Mia is standing under a stream of hot water. I can see it in my mind: droplets running down her bare skin, shampoo turning it slick and sudsy, her eyes closed as she washes herself. Touches herself.

Don’t do it. Don’t fucking do it.

Why not? She wants me to. She wants me. No way would she have put on that little show if she didn’t. She was spinning a web, and now I’m trapped.

Wet, soapy, and willing Mia. Or my empty, Mia-less apartment and a brutal case of blue balls.

That’s not a choice. Who am I fucking kidding? To think I’m capable of walking away from this? Walking away from her?

Clenching my jaw, I push off the wall, and with trembling hands, I grab the hem of my shirt and wrench it up and over my head.

She’s going to get what she’s asking for. And then some.

Y
ou’re a shameless hussy, Mia Waters.

Yup. There’s no doubt about it, especially the shameless part, because I can’t stop smirking while I’m standing under the spray from my shower. Warm water pours over my head and into my face, and it’s like invisible strings are tugging at the corners of my mouth and butterflies are flapping about under my ribs.

I really wasn’t trying to trick or provoke him, and despite how he struggled with my bra hooks, it seemed like he would help me undress in a matter-of-fact, I-do-this-every-day kind of way. But then he made that shitty and sarcastic remark, and I was done playing nice. Done playing fair.

God, the look on his face. When I let my bra drop, his expression went from cold and angry to hot and hungry quicker than you could snap your fingers. And this may be the most telling indication of how distracted he was: he didn’t remind me to keep my injured hand dry. Jay never misses an opportunity to nag.

Seeing him react that way was a serious turn-on, and it made me bold and careless. I’ll probably end up paying for that somehow, but still. Zero regrets.

Keeping my bandaged hand out and away from the water, I use the other to smooth my hair down, soaking it so that I can wash it. What is Jay doing right now? Is he still in the bathroom? Still in the apartment? He wouldn’t just leave…right?

Showering one-handed is awkward. I have to squeeze shampoo directly onto the top of my head instead of into my palm, and then massaging it into my hair is a slow and annoying process. After rinsing it out, I repeat the whole thing with the conditioner.

I’m done with that and am holding my bottle of body wash and trying to figure out what to do with it when I hear the metallic rattling of the shower curtain rings.

I freeze, my heart dropping into my stomach.

Oh, my God.
Jay? Is he doing what I think he’s doing?

Holding my breath and my body still, I feel a waft of cool air on my back, and then I can hear the thumps as he steps into the tub, can sense his presence behind me. Next comes the sound of him closing the curtain again.

My lungs start burning, and my chest deflates as I let the air rush out. I want to look behind me—and I don’t want to. Is he naked? Of course he is. I mean, he has to be…right?

Shit.
I really didn’t expect him to join me, and now I don’t know what to do. I’m standing there with hot water pouring over me, unable to move.

“What are you doing?” The question just kind of tumbles out of me, high-pitched and breathless.

The bare skin of his arm brushes mine as he reaches around me and plucks the bottle out of my grasp. “Helping you wash up. Making sure you keep your hand dry.”