22. Cash
22
CASH
“ I ’m here because I couldn’t stay away.”
Now, she knows, but whether or not she’ll remember it is another thing. She’s concussed from her fall and hitting her head. Her face is cupped under my hand as I try to file through all the emotions coursing through me.
Her stalker is back.
He waited for me to leave her.
I could be wrong, but the coincidence of him returning less than two weeks after I left is too strange. Maybe he was trailing her the entire time, waiting for his moment. As soon as Brooks texted me the picture of what he left in her dressing room, I booked two red-eye flights. I didn’t sleep at all the whole thirteen hours. I’ve been awake for nearly thirty hours now.
Monroe’s eyes are closed, her breath evening out.
“How do you feel, baby?”
If Duke could hear the way I’m talking now, I’d never hear the end of it. Monroe’s state of vulnerability and my undeniable attraction to her are causing me to say and do things I never thought I would allow myself to.
Her eyes blink open. “You left me. And you didn’t even say goodbye.”
The accusation hangs in the air between us.
Guilt claws at me. She’s right; I did. I left her. I ran like a coward. Not from the stalker—that bitch doesn’t scare me. I was running from her, from my own vulnerability. She can tear down all my walls with just a look, and it scares the shit out of me.
“I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere.” My voice is strained.
I continue to caress her cheek, the motion seeming to calm her, but then she leans away from my touch.
“I don’t believe you. Everyone always leaves me. He left, she left, they always leave.” Her voice breaks.
Who left? Her parents?
My fist clenches. “What can I do to convince you?”
She nibbles her lip as she contemplates. I groan, feeling the reaction of blood pumping between my legs. She sits up, eyes narrowed at me.
“I don’t need your protection anymore. I have Brooks and Mike, and just because you waltzed back in here with your stupid cowboy boots and your calluses doesn’t mean I have to give in to you.”
“My calluses?”
She grabs my hand, brushing her fingers over the rough pads of my fingertips and palms. “This. These are calluses.”
Damn. Her concussion is worse than I thought.
I study her face before looking down at my hands again. “ What are you talking about? These are from hauling hay and bull riding.”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t you get it? I want them all over me. I want to feel those calluses in all my sensitive places. How do you not know this?”
I thought I knew women. I thought I understood female preferences and sexual desires, but this is a new one for me. And now, I’m going to think about it all the damn time. She rolls her eyes again, shoving me off of her. I suddenly recognize the denim shirt she’s wearing. It’s the one I gave her when I saved her life at the Sundance Pavilion over a year ago.
“You know what? I’m done with this conversation. Your brother can stay, but you need to go.” She rises to stand, but her shirt has shifted, and half her breast is out, nipple barely covered by a scrap of silk.
I’m frozen in place, eyes glued to her skin. I reach over, adjusting the strap while letting the rough pad of my thumb scrape against her collarbone. She inhales a sharp breath.
“Who said you could touch me?”
“Tell me to stop.”
Her hand reaches up to meet mine, but instead of pulling it away, she presses it against her collarbone and upper chest. I can feel the thump of her heart as it races in her chest, almost as fast as mine is.
Our eyes are locked in until her lids lower as she studies my lips. Her tongue sticks out to wet hers.
“You need to cut that shit out if you’re planning to tell me to stop. Nice shirt, by the way.” I bring my other hand around to cup her side, scraping over the dip in her waist. My lips reach the top of her ear. “I should never have left. I’m sorry I left.”
She inhales a raspy breath. I pull back, intending to press a kiss to her lips, but her eyes widen as she doubles forward. A retching noise comes from the back of her throat as she leans forward and vomits all over my boots. I keep ahold of her waist, supporting her weight as she continues to empty her stomach over the marble tiles.
“Oh shit.” Ember returns to the room, her hand clamped over her mouth.
“Did you call the doctor?” I ask.
She nods. “He’ll be here in less than ten minutes.”
“Go call for the maid service, will you?”
She nods, concern etched in her eyes. She turns and exits the room.
“Let’s go, Princess. Let’s get you into bed.” I’m still supporting her weight even though she’s finished vomiting.
“Oh God,” she moans into me, pressing her face to my shoulder. “I threw up on you. I’m sick.”
“Yeah, you are, but you’re gonna be okay.” I reach down to scoop her up, but before I do, I notice the vomit has gotten all over the bottom of her pants and her feet, along with my jeans and boots.
“Shit,” I curse under my breath.
She’s gonna need a shower.
I continue holding her up while I kick off my soiled boots, trying not to slip in the mess.
“This is so hot, right?” she groans.
I can’t help the smile that spreads across my lips. “This is definitely one of the top ten hottest moments of my life. Here you go.”
I reach down, scooping her up into my arms and marching toward her bedroom. At least my socks escaped the puddle on the floor.
When we get into her spacious, luxurious bathroom, I push open the glass door to the walk-in shower and set her down on the bench. She leans back against the tiles, eyes closed.
“Did I ruin your boots?”
“Nah, they were covered in cow shit yesterday.”
I push the showerhead toward the wall before turning on the water. It comes out cold, so I turn to her.
“We need to strip you down. I won’t look, okay?”
She simply raises her arms up.
Okay then. Let’s do this.
I peel my shirt off of her, followed by her pajama top, looking everywhere but at her body as I move to her bottoms. She lifts her hips as I pull at the waistband and slide them down her thighs. She’s not wearing any panties.
Fuck.
If she wasn’t concussed and we both didn’t reek of vomit, this would be a much different experience.
“This isn’t how I pictured our first shower together in my head,” she mumbles.
Her words are not helping the growing problem in my jeans. I’m not looking at her, but my lower half doesn’t seem to care. Even covered in vomit, she turns me on.
I am so fucked.
I have to take off my Wranglers, too, since the bottom half was spewed with throw-up. I turn away from her to pull them down before tossing all our soiled clothes out onto the rug.
“Yeah? I always thought we’d start in a Jacuzzi.” I guess we’re both confessing things.
The shower is finally getting steamy as the water heats up. There are two showerheads, one coming from higher up in the ceiling and spraying over me. The removable one is what we need. I grab it out of the holder, testing the temperature on my hand before I move toward her.
She leans forward, cupping the water in her hands and drinking it before she spits it back out on the floor. Her eyes slide up my bare legs to meet my gaze. My gray boxers and white T-shirt are soaked through. My dick is protruding out now, impossible to hide.
Her eyes widen as she takes me in. “Are you turned on right now?”
I get down on my knees in front of her, trying to keep my eyes off her pink nipples. “I’ve been turned on since the day we met.”
I start on her feet, rinsing her thoroughly. She grabs the bottle of body wash off the bench and hands it to me. I look up at her face.
She wants me to bathe her.
I can do this without coming.
With her sitting and me kneeling, we’re the same height. I squeeze the body wash into my hands, noticing it’s her vanilla and musky sandalwood scent. I tentatively reach out to start lathering it up over her feet and calves. Once I reach her knees, I glance up at her. She’s leaning her head back, lips parted and eyes glued on me. We stare at each other for a few long seconds, the steam rising around us. I keep moving up her body, washing her upper thighs next. She watches my movements, her eyes trailing from my face down to my erection and back again.
We don’t speak. Words aren’t something we need in this intimate moment. My hands—calluses and all—on her skin seem to be the only communication necessary.
When I get to her hips, she rises to stand. For a moment, I think she might stop me, but she remains motionless, waiting. Her sweet pussy is right in front of my face, begging for me to touch it. I squeeze more body wash into my hands, lathering it against her skin in leisurely circles. My fingers move closer and closer to her sex before, finally, my thumb brushes against it.
She moans, a desperate, high-pitched sound that almost sounds like her crying out. When I do it again, her legs start to tremble. Considering she just passed out and vomited less than an hour ago from a concussion, I resist the urge to brush over her a third time. If I keep touching her there, we’ll be fucking against the cold tiles in the next two minutes.
Her ass deserves its own day of worship. The round cheeks fill my hands perfectly. Resisting the urge to squeeze them takes all my strength. My hard-on has grown painful, and I’m definitely dripping with pre-cum. She still hasn’t touched me. Her hands remain at her sides as she waits for me to finish bathing her.
Once I get to her breasts, I take in a deep gulp of oxygen and move over them quickly. I clench my teeth when I feel the supple, silky skin of her nipples .
Holy fucking hell.
I scrape my thumbs over the tips of them only once, eliciting a whimper from the back of her throat. Our eyes meet. Raging lust, unrestrained desire, and a pure dose of arousal swirl in her gaze.
“Holy fuck, Princess,” I groan, leaning toward her.
She’s sick. She needs medical attention, not your dick in her mouth.
“I’m okay. You don’t need to be gentle with me.” Her words come out breathy.
I exhale, pulling away from her. “No, you’re not okay at all. And with what I want to do to you, you definitely need all your strength.”
I grit my teeth and rinse the rest of her before quickly lathering my feet and legs. If we were both naked in here, I don’t know that I could resist slipping myself inside of her, even with her concussion. She watches me, mercifully still not touching me.
I reach for a towel and dry her off, moving quickly so I don’t get distracted by her body again.
I wrap her up before drying myself. I remove just my T-shirt, stripping down to my boxers. Her eyes widen as she takes in my torso. The erection I’ve been sporting is still standing at attention, getting more painful and annoying by the minute.
“You need some help with that?” she asks.
Baby, I wish.
“Let’s get you into bed.”
I’m worried she’s going to lose consciousness again or get sick if I leave her alone. Once in her bedroom, I move to the closet and search for something comfy she can slip on. I find a faded Willie Nelson T-shirt. I pull it out, along with a soft pair of leggings.
She watches me bring it over to where she’s sitting on the edge of the bed. I hold the clothes out, praying she can dress herself so I can turn around and try to clear my head of this haze of lust.
A knock sounds on the door.
“It’s me,” Ember says. “Housekeeping is here, and the doctor is en route. Do you need anything?”
“Can you get my brother to bring me my bag?”
“Sure.”
Her footsteps fade away.
“Did you really come all the way here because he’d sent me those flowers?”
Monroe’s voice steals my attention back.
She’s lying in bed, her head propped up on a pillow.
So, she didn’t see the dead bird.
“I came back to protect you from whatever else this sicko has planned. And I’m not leaving again.”
She lies back against the pillow, and her eyes drift closed.