Chapter 11
ELEVEN
KIRA
HOLD ONTO ME, VIKING
“I don’t like being handled.”
He tipped up my chin. “Just get in the tub, Sunshine.”
The room was steamy from the heat of the day and the boiling tub full of water behind me. The fact that he seemed to know that I liked it lava-hot made me want to punch him all the more.
He towered over me in the bathroom and made every inch of my skin prickle with awareness. And yet not one bit of him seemed to want to get into the tub with me.
Okay, so the scent of me was questionable, but in my experience most men didn’t care when the end goal was a naked female. Especially a more than willing one such as myself.
He brushed my lower lip with his thumb before he backed up the last few inches in my tiny ass room and ducked back through the door—yes, ducked.
My entire apartment never felt smaller than this moment.
In fact, I’d actively worked to make sure it felt as spacious as possible and right now it seemed like a damn thimble.
He closed the door firmly and I resisted the urge to growl.
Who was he to tell me to take a bath? Didn’t he realize it was ninety degrees right now?
And yet I found myself peeling off my clothes.
I was tempted to burn them, but I wore black for a reason.
It hid all of the sins of work—including syrup and alcohol stains.
Instead, I dumped everything into my hamper, pinned the sticky mess of my hair up, and wrapped my terrycloth headband around the whole of it.
I hooked my phone to my Bluetooth speaker and cranked up the music.
Normally I listened to soothing tunes in the bath, but I was still pissed off enough to boost the bass heavy pop song playlist I used for cleaning. In the end, it annoyed me more than it probably worked to annoy him—because he was a jerk.
I hissed as I lowered my aching body into the silky water.
This tub was why I’d rented the minuscule one-bedroom place.
When I’d moved in here five years ago, it was because the owner of this converted house wasn’t from Turnbull.
He didn’t know who I was beyond the fact that I had Beckett as a reference.
But the tub had been the only bit of indulgence I’d allowed myself. Working sometimes four jobs at a time—and almost all of them had me on my feet—required something for recovery.
And a bath was mine.
I was tired enough to dump another scoop of my special bath salts into the water.
Epsom would be a better bet with the soreness of my shoulders from the flying drunk tackle from the asshat at The Mason Jar.
But I had a six-foot-four Viking in my apartment and if he didn’t piss me off for five seconds, I might even let him see me naked.
If he wasn’t contrary enough to tell me we were waiting for my own good.
I lowered myself until I was submerged to my neck.
When the song changed to a bombastic Miley song, I’d had enough.
I reached for my phone and scrolled for the instrumentals I generally listened to during my winding down time, but I accidentally opened the sexy times playlist. Not mine—but the music app sure knew what it was doing as The Weeknd filtered out of my small but mighty speaker.
This would probably backfire on me too, but I didn’t care at this point. The warm water did its job and I was close to a parboiled potato before the water cooled off enough to get my ass moving once again. I took a few minutes to use my razor since it was right there.
I had a mile of leg to shave, but it was much easier to do while my skin was soft and slightly oiled from the water. I took my time exfoliating with my body sugar until I was practically rosy. I unplugged the drain with my toes and stood to do a rinse and washed my rat’s nest of a head.
Another few cherries and a lemon wedge dropped from the lather. I washed my hair twice for good measure and conditioned the hell out of it before turning off the water.
And because I couldn’t help myself, I quickly spritzed the tub with the cleaner I kept in the skinny cabinet.
I was squeezing out the last of the excess water from my hair when I heard his voice outside.
“Dinner.”
I frowned. What the hell had he found in my fridge to cook? He had to have ordered something.
And of course I didn’t have anything to wear. I spotted the silky kimono on the back of my door. Not exactly the best for drying off. My big towels were in the linen closet outside.
I did the best I could with the lone oversized hand towel and slid into the silky kimono. All I had to do was make it to my bedroom. Of course it was down the hall with a prime view from my galley kitchen.
“Dammit,” I whispered.
Oh, yeah, I was a femme fatale—obviously—with a silky robe sticking to every roll and bit of pudge. So hot.
This sucked.
I blew out a breath and opened the door.
Steam furled out behind me as the raspy voice of Dermot Kennedy flowed out with it.
I’d forgotten to turn off the music while I’d been angsting about my lack of clothes.
It was a favorite song of mine and I didn’t want to think too hard about how it reminded me of Ronan.
The rasp.
The deepness.
The passion and watery tones of the music mixed with the epic, rolling layers of longing and building drums.
He stood in the dim light of the hallway wearing one of my frilly aprons around his wide chest. A cast iron frying pan was in his hand with a towel around the handle.
The scent of garlic and basil, tomatoes, egg, and cheese made my stomach roar even as my breath backed up in my chest. This big man had carted me around half the evening, and now he was in my kitchen cooking for me.
I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had done anything for me, let alone make me a meal.
Or worry about if I was hurting—body and mind.
His dark gaze swept down my body, lingering at my legs peeking from the lavender robe, before returning to my face. The pan clattered back to the stove and the heavy thud of his boots shook me out of my stupor.
My eyes suddenly pricked and I rushed out of the bathroom to my bedroom, leaving puddles in my wake.
I slammed the door to my bedroom and collapsed against it.
My chains and earrings rattled on the jewelry organizer on the back of the door.
I quickly straightened before everything fell off.
I bent to pick up a few necklaces and tucked them back into their felt envelopes. “Get it together, Webb.”
I huffed out a breath and tried to calm my racing heart.
It was just dinner.
And maybe a bang—no matter what he’d said in the truck.
Yes, it would be a very good bang. If not for the sheer size and scope of how we fit together, simply because it had been a damn long time since I’d had time for sex.
I want to know where and how many freckles you have. How you moan when I slide into you.
Who the hell talked like that? Or one better—who didn’t sound ridiculous when he said it?
“Kira?” He knocked softly on the door.
“I’ll be out in a second.”
“You sure you’re okay? I can go if you really want me to.”
“No.” The word flew out of my mouth with a sharpness I didn’t mean. I clenched my hands and evened out my voice. “No. I’ll be right there. I just need to get dressed.”
“Personally, I like the robe.” His voice was gravelly and low. “No need to change.”
My hand was on the knob before I knew it. This seduction scene would only get more awkward if I kept thinking about everything. What to wear, what to do with him, what did this mean?
Overwhelm became overload and I opened the door.
Cotton and denim-clad man filled the doorway.
The silly blue gingham apron didn’t take away from the sheer hotness factor.
His hair was damp around his temples from the humidity and probably the stove.
The small braids he tended to wear to tame some of the volume of his curls only added to the wildness of him.
I reached up to finger one of the small beads at the end of a braid. A symbol was carved into the forged silver. I was pretty sure it was a rune, only reinforcing my Viking nickname for him.
He caught my hand and turned it so he could brush his lips over my wrist. “My Ma likes to think she’s protecting her sons and daughters.”
“Do you believe?”
His dark eyes were heavy-lidded as he spoke quietly. “I believe in her, so I guess so.”
What must that be like? To believe and love someone like that? There was no love lost between me and my mother. The only thing that linked us was biology and a name that meant even less in Turnbull.
He set my hand on his bearded cheek. “Let me in, Sunshine.”
Into my room was easy compared to the heat and intensity of his gaze. I knew he meant so much more, but this was all I had for him. I tugged the sash of my robe open and the silk slithered apart.
He sucked in a breath and stepped forward. I slid my fingers from his cheek into the curls and along the nape of his neck to drag him forward. I didn’t want to think anymore. I just wanted his hands on me until all the noise went away.
The embarrassment of the day.
The complications of him.
The Taproom’s success landing squarely on my shoulders.
Not wanting to let anyone down.
I let all of it fall away with my robe on the floor.
Heat licked at the deep espresso brown of his eyes, leaving them almost otherworldly in the dim light of my room. A single lamp behind me kept everything from being too overwhelming. Shadows were definitely my friend when it came to getting naked with someone for the first time.
His gaze raked over me as we both fumbled to get him free of the apron. I laughed as the beads and the heavy leather cord of his necklace tangled with the neck strap of the too-small garment. Finally he flipped it off and the apron landed with my kimono.