Chapter 17
Robert
I’m not used to being in bed with another person. I like my space. Unless I’m dog sitting for my sister’s Pomeranian terror, Chewbarka. That wee arsehole can somehow take up an entire king-sized bed.
But when I blink into consciousness after our first night in Croatia, my entire body prickles with awareness that I’m not the only person in the room.
If I was in any doubt, the mop of caramel-brown hair covering my chest would be a dead giveaway. Somehow, despite all the space afforded to us in this laughably large bed, she’s found her way to me.
Seems my fake girlfriend is a heat seeker in her sleep, even in Croatia in June. Her body rises and falls with even, heavy breaths, and her arm is draped across my stomach, and her leg is coiled over mine. She’s curled up tight against me.
I have to say, I’ve woken up to worse experiences over the years.
My skin burns where her body touches mine, and my fingers itch to explore the exposed pieces of skin. For someone who looks at me like she wants to break my face, she’s awfully cuddly.
Rhiannon Morrigan is about to enter an exclusive club, and I’m not sure how I feel about it.
Few people have seen my leg in all its stub glory because it’s hard to predict how people will react.
Some are wholly unfazed, but some view me with a deep pity I can’t stand to see reflected back in their stares.
Something nestled in my chest isn’t ready for Rhiannon to look at me with sympathy or anything resembling pity in those fierce and gorgeous green eyes.
I’m tempted to slip out from under her, to put my prosthesis on and some trousers so she can’t see it.
But we’re here together for a week, and it’s hotter than the devil’s ball bag.
There’s simply no way she’s not going to see it.
So, I suppose this morning is as good a time as any.
“Oh. My. God.” The words are muffled, spoken against my ribs a fraction of a second before she bolts upright in the bed, yanking her body away from mine like my skin burns. Her absence makes something sag in my chest.
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand before her jaw drops open. “I drooled on you again?” She doesn’t seem to think twice before reaching out to wipe her slobber off my chest as though we aren’t essentially strangers. “I never drool. How embarrassing.”
What’s embarrassing is the morning wood that’s decided to enter the chat. I can only hope she doesn’t—shit. Shit. Don’t look.
Aw fuck. She’s looking. She’s definitely looking.
The most adorable pink stain blooms in her cheeks as she makes eye contact with my early morning anaconda.
“Uh… I…” She points at the door. “I’m gonna go pee.”
“If it helps, my dick doesn’t know this is supposed to be fake. He just sees a stunning woman with wild bed head who dribbled all over me, again, and thinks it’s go time.” I flash her a confident, easy smile that juxtaposes the tightness in my crotch.
Her mouth falls open, her cheeks darken even more, and her hands jerk to her head. “Oh my Goooood. I’m so glad you agreed this wasn’t going into a news story because this…” She points at her wild mane. “This would get a lot of social engagement.”
She hops off the mattress and makes her way around the bed toward the bathroom.
As she walks, her shorts lift, and it’s really fucking hard not to stare at the toned, strong muscles of one of the best fly-halves in the women’s league, or the extra sliver of pale arse cheek as the fabric hikes with each step.
When she closes the door, I contemplate my life choices. It’s going to be impossible to be with this woman for a whole week and not want to bang her brains out. My dick is painfully hard. The memory of how soft and tight and hot her pussy is, is engrained in my mind.
Could I rub one out while she’s in the bathroom? Take the edge off?
No. I can’t do that. If she walks in and finds me with my hand on my cock, she’s going to think I’m a sex-crazed creep and flee back to Ireland. I wouldn’t blame her, either.
I will my erection to deflate with every ounce of strength I have in me, and when he refuses to give in, I sit up in bed, back against the headboard, and cover him with a pillow. She shouldn’t have to see him poking at the sheet like he owns the place.
And as soon as she returns, I can hit the shower, sit my arse down on the accessible bench, and jerk off until my hand falls off if I want.
Except, when she walks in, she’s wearing an emerald green bikini that does nothing to soothe the raging hard-on under the pillow in my lap. In fact, my dick somehow gets harder, balls throbbing, and a needy ache fills my gut.
Fucking hell, this woman is going to be the death of me.
I make a strangled sound in the back of my throat.
“What? Did I get toothpaste on me?” She seems truly clueless as to why my body is making weird noises. She touches the three-bird tattoo on her collarbone, then looks my way for confirmation.
“Nope. You just…” I wave an arm at her. “You look incredible.”
It takes a beat, like she’s really hung up on the idea that she might have toothpaste on her somewhere before she reacts.
Her face lights up like Belfast City Center at Christmas time, taking the wind right out of my chest. There’s a flicker of anger in me that it takes something so small for her to beam at me like that, but I bask in her warmth.
She quickly schools her face, replacing her elation at my positive appraisal of her body with a mask of indifference verging on irritation. “Don’t objectify me, journalist.” She spits the word like she’s reminding both of us of where the boundaries are.
If she didn’t hate everything I stand for, I’d totally put the moves on this woman. But no amount of chemistry that may or may not still be simmering between us will erase what she believes of me.
The fact that I relentlessly pursued a case against her brother and father for my own benefit, for financial gain, or worse, for the spotlight and attention. When in actuality, it was none of those things.
She looks at the bottle of suncream in her hands, then at me, the stitch of a frown between her brows getting deeper as it dawns on her that she shouldn’t have been quite so snappy at me since she needs my help.
She cautiously offers the suncream to me. “Could you?” She gestures to her back. “Would you mind?”
“Oh, absolutely. Nothing says workplace boundaries like rubbing down the woman who called me a parasite.”
She snorts. “I’ll take my chances. Parasites can die off in the sun, and we have a week. Give it time.”
I take the bottle from her. “You sure you trust me not to spell something rude in SPF 50?”
“You spell? Don’t make me laugh, I’ve seen your articles.” She throws her head back in indignation, like the idea is ridiculous. Nothing on her face gives away her amusement other than a lively sparkle in her eyes.
“Isn’t this breaking a rule or something?” I tip my head.
She gives a nervous giggle before shaking her head. “Necessary contact, so I don’t end up in a hospital here for sunstroke.” She pulls her hair around to one side of her neck, tilting her head so she’s exposed to me. I suck in a slow breath through my nose, holding it for a moment before I release.
Because I’m not a creepy man who perves on women, I apply the suncream to all the visible skin on her back. But, because I’m a red-blooded man who is insanely attracted to the woman he’s sharing a room with for a week, by the time I’m done, my cock is so excruciatingly hard, I might pass out.
As she’s passing my leg propped up against the wall, she pauses.
“Would you like this over?” She doesn’t wait for an answer.
She simply plucks it up and sets it on the bed next to me.
“Don’t feel like you need to put it on all the time.
I imagine it’s much more comfortable to not have it on at all. ”
I nod. “Thanks.” My hand absently travels to my thigh where I give it a comforting rub. “Rhiannon?”
She pauses.
“While that was a fairly innocent action, some people do feel pretty anxious about other people moving their mobility aids without permission.”
Her stoic mask falls, and her eyes fill with guilt as red splodges fill her cheeks.
“It can make you feel a bit trapped.”
“Understandably.” She hums, eyes fixed on the prosthesis sitting next to me on the bed. “I’m sorry. That was careless of me. I should have waited for you to answer.”
“It’s okay. I know you were trying to be helpful.”
She nods slowly. “We should probably talk more about it at some point.” She stops, shakes her head, then wets her lips.
“Nothing you don’t want to share, obviously.
I mean, you know I looked you up online, so I know some things.
But as your fake girlfriend-slash-wife, I should probably know more about you than simply what I read on the internet. We all know how reliable that can be.”
She’s not wrong, but trust is a two-way street, and there’s no way she’s going to trust me with any of her personal information, at least not yet, so I give her a non-committal “hm” in response.
She doesn’t press the issue, gives my fake leg what looks like a reassuring pat, and then makes her way out of the room.
Drawn to her like bees to honey, I ignore the pulsing ache in my crotch and pick up my prosthesis.
I’ve packed folding crutches in my luggage, but I didn’t get them out of the bag before heading to bed.
I’ll use them when we’re here in the suite, so I don’t have to attach my limb every day.
Usually, in strange company, I’d make an effort, but for a whole week?
Hell no. My lower pain tolerance post amputation makes it uncomfortable to wear for any length of time.
Having to wear it around war zones was part of the reason I ended up coming home. I just couldn’t keep up anymore.