Chapter 5
Benny’s head fell back against the bar cabinet.
The sound that came out of his mouth was embarrassing. Somewhere between a groan and a whimper, dragged out of him by the simple act of Shaw’s thumb pressing into the arch of his foot.
He hadn’t meant to make that sound. He hadn’t meant to react at all. It had just been a joke, for Christ’s sake.
But Shaw’s hands were so warm and competent, working into muscles that had been screaming for hours, and Benny’s body had responded before his brain could stop it.
God. God. He hadn’t realized how much his feet hurt until someone started doing something about it.
Shaw’s hands were big. Benny had noticed earlier, when they’d been holding a gun on the man who’d had him pinned—hard to miss, that close up—but he hadn’t felt it until now.
Rough palms and calloused fingers, but the touch itself was careful.
Surprisingly gentle for someone who killed people for a living.
Shaw worked Benny’s foot with the same calm competence he seemed to bring to everything, methodical and focused, like this was just another task that needed doing and he was determined to do it right.
His thumbs dug into the arch of Benny’s foot, into muscle that had been cramped tight all night. The pressure was perfect—firm enough to actually work the tension out, not so hard it hurt.
Benny should say something. Crack a joke, get a wall back up—ask if this was the treatment all Shaw’s getaway drivers got. That was always the move when something started to feel too real.
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
“You’ve gone quiet,” Shaw said, not looking up.
“Don’t get used to it.” It came out thin, nothing behind it.
Shaw set the first foot down and reached for the other without asking, like this was a standing arrangement. He started in on it the same way, thumbs pressing into new territory, and Benny bit down on his lip—a doomed, last-ditch grab at dignity.
Then Shaw’s thumb bore down on a vicious tight spot in his arch, and something deep in his foot let go all at once. Relief washed up the back of his leg, and Benny melted into the cabinet, boneless. Dignity be damned.
Hours on his feet. His arches were cramped and ruined, his toes still curled tight from the abuse of those fucking heels. He’d been running on spite and the bone-deep stubbornness that had gotten him through every hard thing in his life.
Being this relaxed around someone who’d killed a man in front of him an hour ago should have felt dangerous. Benny should be on guard—clocking exits, bracing for worst-case scenarios, the way he always did.
The floor was cold through the satin. Shaw’s hands weren’t.
The dim red glow from the emergency exit signs softened the hard angles of Shaw’s face.
Up close, in the quiet, Benny could see details he’d missed before.
Fine lines at the corners of Shaw’s eyes that could have been from frowning or smiling.
From what he’d gathered of the guy, probably the former.
“Bet this isn’t how you saw your night going,” Benny said.
“Pictured it shorter,” Shaw said. “Fewer rabbits.”
“You got the deluxe package.”
Shaw almost smiled. Benny decided to count it.
Benny’s shoulders had come unhooked from around his ears somewhere in the last five minutes. He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.
“These look like they hurt,” Shaw said, almost to himself. He worked the heel of his hand up Benny’s tendon, slow. “You should stay off them more.”
“Tell that to my bank account. These aren’t even the worst they’ve been.”
“Yeah?”
“Cinco de Mayo, last year.” Benny huffed a laugh. “Twelve-hour shift in platforms. Couldn’t walk for two days.”
Shaw’s palm cupped his heel, calluses snagging on the soft skin of his instep, and Benny’s foot went pliant in his hands. “Platforms are worse?”
“Everything is worse when it involves tequila shots.” Benny flexed his toes against Shaw’s palm. “The heels are brutal, but at least they make my legs look incredible.”
Shaw’s gaze dropped to Benny’s legs. Traveled down and back up, slow and deliberate. “They do.”
Well, fuck. The compliment shouldn’t have landed. Benny got told he was pretty for a living.
But Shaw said it flat, just a fact, and the heat climbed Benny’s neck before he could stop it.
He drank to cover it. That didn’t help.
Shaw’s thumb pushed deeper into his arch, right into the worst of the ache, and Benny’s whole body unclenched at once. He bit back a sound. God, it was good—it was embarrassing, how much he didn’t want it to stop.
He held the bottle out as a distraction. Shaw took it, and their fingers slid together on the glass.
Benny watched Shaw drink—the tilt of his head, the slow work of his throat—and didn’t bother pretending he wasn’t looking.
Shaw set the bottle down and laid his hand back over Benny’s foot, the palm warm, the fingers gone still.
The touch had changed. The hand on his foot had stopped pretending to be about a cute gesture. Shaw’s eyes came up to his, and Benny’s pulse took off.
So that was a new development. His pulse had worked it out a beat before the rest of him, which felt rude; Benny liked being the first to know things.
“What?” Benny asked.
“Nothing.” But Shaw’s thumb pressed into Benny’s arch again, and his gaze didn’t waver. “Just looking.”
“At what?”
“You.”
His mouth went dry. Traitor.
Oh, shit. This was a terrible idea. A hitman he’d met over a dead body an hour ago.
And every medical instinct Benny had said that a man who’d lost that much blood should be lying still, not raising his heart rate for anything.
Benny was an excellent nurse.
He chose, for the next twenty minutes, to be a deeply negligent one.
Fuck it.
Benny pulled his foot back.
Shaw’s hands went still. Confusion crossed his face for just a moment—and then Benny was moving, closing the distance between them. The confusion gave way to surprise, then hunger, naked on Shaw’s face in a way that killed every smart line Benny had stacked up.
Benny climbed into Shaw’s lap.
It was graceless. Uncoordinated. Definitely not the smooth seduction he’d pull on the rare occasions he actually wanted to sleep with someone.
He just moved. Threw one leg over Shaw’s thighs, then the other, settling his weight until they were face to face.
The bunny ears listed sideways. Benny didn’t care.
When Benny’s weight settled fully against him, Shaw made a sound—barely there, more vibration than voice.
Shaw’s hands came up to Benny’s hips. Warm and solid through the thin satin of the bunny suit.
Benny’s palms were flat on Shaw’s chest. He’d put them there without thinking—fingers spread over warm skin and the rough edge of the gauze bandage. He could feel Shaw’s heartbeat under his right hand. Fast. Faster than that calm expression suggested…
So Shaw wasn’t as composed as he looked. Good. That made two of them.
They were close enough that Benny could feel Shaw’s breath on his mouth, see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes. Close enough to feel the controlled tension in Shaw’s thighs beneath him—the effort of not moving.
He was waiting. Two hundred pounds of hired killer gone motionless, leaving it to Benny.
Leaving it to Benny.
That was the thing that got Benny. Benny kissed him.
Shaw kissed like he did everything else—with complete, focused attention.
His mouth was warm against Benny’s, firm and demanding but not forceful. He tasted like whiskey and heat, and Benny chased that taste, pressing closer, wanting more.
Benny pressed deeper, and Shaw made a low sound against his mouth that vibrated through Benny’s chest and settled low in his stomach. The hands on Benny’s hips tightened, pulling him in until there was no space left between them.
Shaw was hard against him. There was no hiding that, not with Benny in his lap, and the knowledge sent a hot thrill of satisfaction through him. Shaw hadn’t lost that much blood, then.
Shaw’s hands slid up from Benny’s hips to his waist, broad palms spanning the curve of his body, fingers pressing into the dip of Benny’s waist as he learned the shape of him.
The ears were still up there, listing sideways in his hair. Benny reached up to shake them loose.
Shaw beat him to it. His hand came up to the side of the headband and held it exactly where it was. “These stay on.”
Benny let his hand drop. Fine.
Shaw’s hand slid down off the headband, along Benny’s cheek, and settled under his jaw. Gentle but firm, tipping his head back. Benny went with it, letting Shaw guide him, exposing the long line of his throat.
Then Shaw’s mouth was on his throat and Benny’s eyes were falling closed.
Shaw worked his way down Benny’s neck and Benny forgot he was supposed to be driving this. Lips and teeth, just enough edge to make Benny shiver. The curve where shoulder met neck, then the spot just below his ear that made his hips jerk forward.
Shaw’s hands kept moving, restless and exploring, tracing Benny’s body through the satin. The dip of his spine. The soft skin of his lower back where the bodysuit rode up.
When his fingers found the tail—that fluffy thing that had bounced against Benny’s ass all night—Shaw tugged. The whole suit went tight on him at once, satin biting up between his cheeks and dragging against his cock in the same motion.
“Fuck,” Benny breathed.
Shaw tugged again. Harder. His hips ground forward into Shaw’s lap, and they both made sounds that weren’t dignified.
Benny kissed him again, messy and urgent, all restraint dissolved. “Again. Harder—fuck, yeah, like that, I can feel you, don’t stop, do it?—”
“You talk a lot,” Shaw said, pulling back just enough to look at him. “You know that?”
“I’ve been told.” Benny was breathing hard. “Does it bother you?”
“No.” Shaw’s thumb traced the line of Benny’s jaw. “I like it.”
“Most people find it annoying.”
“Most people are fuckin’ idiots.”
The laugh got out of Benny before he could catch it. Shaw’s expression softened at the sound, his eyes going warm. He looked almost gentle for a second. Almost vulnerable.
Then his hand slid down Benny’s chest, fingers catching on the edge of the bodysuit, and the gentleness gave way to something that made Benny’s blood run hot.
“This thing have a zipper?” Shaw asked.
“Back.”
Shaw slid a hand around Benny and pulled it down with slow deliberation. Each click of the teeth was impossibly loud in the quiet club.
He didn’t take it off. He just worked it loose enough to slip a hand inside, palm flat against Benny’s bare back.
Benny inhaled sharply. Shaw’s hand was warm and rough, and he spread his fingers wide against Benny’s skin, savoring the contact.
Then his hand moved. Up Benny’s spine, tracing his shoulder blades. Around to his sides, then up over his ribs and chest—exploring everywhere the loosened suit would let him reach. Patient and thorough, like they had all the time in the world.
Benny’s hands weren’t going to stay idle.
He pushed Shaw’s ruined shirt the rest of the way off his shoulders, ran his palms over warm skin and hard muscle.
Traced the edges of the bandage—the one that marked where Shaw had bled for him.
Shaw hissed at the touch, and Benny paused.
A reminder of what a stupid idea this was. “Shaw?—”
Those were his stitches. His neat, careful work, pulling taut every time Shaw moved, and the nurse in him wanted to grab Shaw’s face and explain wound dehiscence in small, slow words.
The rest of him wanted Shaw to keep going.
Shaw silenced him with another kiss. Then, in one smooth movement, he flipped their positions.
Benny’s back hit the floor. The wood was cold against his skin where the suit didn’t cover it, but he barely registered it because Shaw was over him immediately—between his legs, face inches from Benny’s.
Shaw’s weight settled over him, solid and warm.
Benny was in so far over his head.
He had absolutely no interest in coming up for air.