Chapter 17 Brady
brADY
The long string of colorful obscenities emanating from Elizabeth’s bathroom brings a genuine smile to my face as I set the box of pizza on the coffee table.
However, when the invectives are interrupted by an, “Ow, ow, ow.” My amusement disappears.
I hear the shower running as I push open the bathroom door. Abruptly, the shower curtain rips back, and Elizabeth’s pale face appears, eyes wide with fear. She clutches the material to her chest shielding herself.
I feel like an asshole.
“Just me.” I raise my hands in front of my chest.
“I think you gave me a heart attack,” she says, but her face relaxes. “You know I’m on the run from a killer cabal, right?”
“That’s the rumor.”
“I’ll be out in a minute. Just need to figure out how to rinse my hair.”
“Do you need help? I don’t mean to brag, but I mastered that particular skill in preschool,” I tease, trying not to think about the fact that she’s naked only a few feet away.
She rolls her eyes. “Aren’t you the overachiever. Unfortunately, I’m one handed at the moment and can’t turn all the way into the water to get that side of my head rinsed.”
She looks so irritated and… adorable?
Sexy? Check. Intelligent? Check. Tough? Check. Funny? Check. But adorable?
It’s not an adjective I ever thought I’d use to describe Elizabeth, but that’s exactly what she is right now. The sight of her wet hair plastered around her makeup-free face, while she jokes with me creates a strange fizzing sensation in my chest.
“The way I see it, you have two options,” I say with a grin, ignoring the growing pressure behind my ribs. “I can either pour water over the top of the curtain and hope to hit the soapy bits, or I can come in there and help you.”
Her eyes widen, but I see the way her pupils dilate and her lips part with a soft exhalation. Despite the fact that I was mostly joking, I’m suddenly dying to join her in the shower.
“You are not coming in here.”
I shrug and hope my untucked T-shirt is long enough to hide what I’m sure is an obvious erection.
Get control of yourself.
“It’s not like I haven’t seen it before.”
Huge mistake. Now the image of Elizabeth in nothing but heels and a gold mask is firmly in the forefront of my mind.
Her face flushes. “It’s not the same thing.”
“True.” My voice is rough. “I’m just trying to help, scout’s honor.”
She makes a face. “You weren’t a scout.”
“I was too,” I protest, slapping my hand to my chest in exaggerated offense. “For a few months, anyway. I punched the son of the troop leader for being a little shit and got kicked out.”
She presses her lips together, and I can tell she’s trying not to laugh. “How old were you?”
“Seven.”
Her laugh slips free, a happy sound that makes my chest expand.
Then she flinches, and the bubble pops.
“Are you in pain?”
She grimaces. “No. Apparently, I’ve used up all the hot water. Shoo, so I can get out.” She flaps a hand at me.
I lift an eyebrow, not budging. “What about your hair?” She frowns, shivering. “Get dressed.” I take a step back into the bedroom. “We’ll use the sink.”
By the time I return with a chair from downstairs, Elizabeth is dressed in loose pajama pants and a soft cotton top that does nothing to hide her beautiful breasts or the outline of her nipples. Her braless nipples. They harden in front of me, and she lifts one arm across her chest, glaring at me.
My mouth goes dry.
“The nurse helped me at the hospital, but I can’t get my bra on one-handed, and when I lift this arm too far,” she says, as she gestures toward her injured side, “it pulls.”
I swallow hard. “You won’t get any complaints from me. C’mon.” I walk past her and position the chair in front of the sink. “You might have to prop your feet on the edge of the bathtub. It’s a tight fit.”
I hear her snicker and look over my shoulder.
She turns bright red. “Sorry. Apparently under stress, my humor reverts to when I was twelve.” I stare at her blankly. “Are you serious? That’s what she said?” she says in a ‘duh’ voice.
“And to think I thought you were this high-class lawyer.” I smile, delighted with this glimpse of her personality. “Let’s go.” I gesture at the chair but Elizabeth hesitates, chewing her lip.
“You don’t have to—”
“Sit. Down. Firefly.”
She does as I say, leaning her head back over the sink.
“If you’re going to do it, can I get the full treatment?” Her blue eyes twinkle up at me. “My conditioner is on the counter.”
I tsk at her. “There will be an extra charge.”
“I think I can afford it.”
Testing the lukewarm water, I fill the cup I brought upstairs with me, and hold it over her wary eyes.
“Hold still. I’d hate to accidentally spill it on you.”
“If you do, you aren’t getting a tip,” she shoots back.
I grin and waggle my eyebrows. “Brace yourself. We’ve only just started offering spa services. I haven’t had a lot of practice.”
Pouring the water carefully over the crown of her head, I tilt the cup so it runs down her dark hair without splashing her face.
Her lashes lower as I run my fingers through the silky strands, gently working through any tangles. I repeat the motion over and over, long after the water has run clear, the silence growing thick between us.
“You ever decide to change careers,” she says, trying for casual, but her voice is husky, “you could get a job at a salon.”
Elizabeth’s chest is rising and falling faster now. Her nipples are tight under the thin cotton. So close and far too tempting. My cock presses painfully against my zipper.
“Yeah?” I rasp.
Her lips part in a tiny sigh as I spread the conditioner through her hair, like I’m focused on my task and not the truth. Which is, I’m mesmerized by the sight of her ebony strands slipping through my fingers.
I keep my hands moving in her hair, not because I’m dedicated to giving the longest hair treatment known to man, but because, frankly, I can’t stop touching her.
I pour another slow stream over her crown, letting my thumb stroke down the soft skin of her neck. The tiny shiver that runs through her goes straight to my gut.
The temptation I’ve been fighting proves too much. I splay my fingers over her head, my fingertips working slow circles over her scalp. She tips her head a little farther back, exposing the delicate line of her throat.
She doesn’t seem to notice the soft sounds she’s making, as her body grows lax in the chair.
But I do. The seductive hums spear through me.
My chest tightens, and heat pools low in my gut, and I grow even more painfully hard.
Dragging my thumbs along the base of her skull, I feel her shiver, and every muscle in my body goes rigid with the need to touch more of her.
Her pulse flutters rapidly in the hollow at the base of her neck, and the urge to slide my palm down and feel it against my fingertips is almost irresistible.
I slow my strokes, fingers spread wide as I imagine gliding down over her collarbone, before palming her breasts, tormenting her until she makes those addictive sounds I remember.
The pressure I’m using increases in time with my blood beating hot in my veins as my fingers continue to comb the strands back.
It would be so easy to lean forward and close my lips over hers.
Drink in her cries as my palm skates down her body to cup her beneath her panties.
To move over the hot, slick skin there, the same way I am in her hair, until she’s writhing beneath my fingers.
A low moan escapes her lips.
Shit. Lost in the fantasy, I’ve wrapped her hair around my fist and pulled her hair. I tell myself to let go, but instead, my hand tugs lightly and she moans again, causing my cock to jerk in my pants.
This is torture. All I want is to give in. Surrender to what my body insists I should do. Succumb to temptation until her moans break into screams. This time with my name on her lips when she comes. A shudder rips through me, and I force my fist to unclench, letting her hair slip free.
My palm tracks back from her forehead one last time before I essentially grunt at her. “Done.”
I have to get out of this room before I do something we can’t come back from.
It doesn’t help knowing she’s just as affected as I am. The way she’s squirming in the chair would have told me if her jumping pulse and flushed skin didn’t.
But we can’t. I know I can’t go there with her right now—not while she’s recovering from stitches, not to mention the traumatic experiences she’s been through over the last couple of days.
I’m still staring at her up-tipped face like a fool, when her lashes lift. The look in her eyes almost breaks me. Because the raw lust gleaming in her blue eyes matches my own.
Shoving a towel at her, I spin on my heel and escape. What I’m coming to realize is, while Elizabeth has always been more than just a client, what I want from her is more than I’ve ever wanted with any woman. And that is more terrifying than the danger waiting for us outside these walls.