She’d transitioned to “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” by the time his heartbeat leveled out and he finally let go of his wrung-out dick. He grabbed the box of tissue on his nightstand and cleaned up. Then he shrugged out of his clothes. He’d always liked this song, and he liked it even more in her soulful, acoustic style. As soon as she finished, he’d get up and throw himself in the shower.
Hours later, he woke drenched in the aftereffects of an achingly vivid dream involving Roxy kneeling across the backseat of his cruiser, handcuffed to the oh-shit handle while he frisked her from head to toe—with his tongue. A weak wash of moonlight infiltrated the gaps in the curtains, and what was beginning to feel like a permanent erection tented his sheet.
He cursed, dragged himself up and straight into a cold shower because he refused to take matters into his own hands twice in less than twelve hours. At least there was a light at the end of this tunnel of torture. A day or two, max. He could keep his shit together for the duration.
Chapter Five
The sun crested the treetops just as the dryer buzzed. West finished pouring his second cup of coffee and left the mug on the kitchen counter to cool while he trekked downstairs to get his laundry. The clock on the coffeemaker read six fifteen, which conscientious people might deem too early to be running the machines now that another tenant called the unit on the other side of the wall home, but he’d agreed to lend a hand on a charity construction project headed by local contractor Tyler Longfoot, and he was down to one stray sock and a ratty pair of NYPD sweat shorts. Conscientious types might also say he ought to put something on when entering a space he no longer had exclusively to his self. He’d opted for the ratty sweats over the stray sock.
Then again, based on how late into the night Roxy’s concert had run, he could probably traipse up and down the stairs stark naked for the next several hours without a single witness. He doubted she’d stir before noon regardless of the churn of the washer or the Jeopardy buzzer of the dryer.
He stepped into the small room, relieved to find it as empty as he’d left it forty minutes ago, except…he inhaled deeply. It smelled different. Sweeter. He stared at the door leading to the other unit. It smelled like her.
Jesus, he was losing his mind. Yes, her voice crept into his room through the vent, but no way could her scent permeate solid walls. He wasn’t breathing her in through shared air. A blast of heat hit his face as he opened the dryer and began shoveling his clothes into the basket. Like a good housemate, he cleaned the trap before shutting the machine as quietly as possible. He hefted the basket and turned to go back the way he’d come when the door behind him swung open. Bracelets jangled and a breathless voice called, “Wait. Stop!”
The same voice that had insinuated itself into his dreams, except in the erotic scenarios woven by his subconscious she’d called out, “Don’t stop, West. Please don’t stop.” He ordered his cock to stand down—utter fail—and defaulted to holding the laundry basket over his groin. With a strange combination of dread and excitement, he turned to face Roxy. “What?”
“You’re the upstairs tenant?”
He didn’t mean to ignore her question, but a more pressing one burst out of his mouth. “What the hell are you wearing?”
She looked down at herself, then up at him. “My robe.” Her expression said, Duh.
Only an Okinawa hooker would call the bordello red kimono with gold fringe dripping from the thigh-skimming hem a “robe.” “Uh-uh. No.” He shook his head. “We’re not having a conversation until you put on real clothes.”
“This is real. Look, it covers all the pertinent parts.” She waved a hand in the general vicinity of said parts, which scattered the bracelets and caused major slippage at the front of the robe where two gold embroidered dragons guarded the goods. Meanwhile, her gaze scorched a path down the center of his chest, along his abdomen, and straight to the blockade of the laundry basket. “What are you wearing?”
“Shorts. And before you start an argument you’re not going to win, let me point out that I could get the newspaper off the front walk in what I’m wearing.” Assuming he could get his pertinent parts under control.
“And I couldn’t?”
The idea of her bending to fetch the paper in that getup made every pulse in his body pound. “Not unless you want to be arrested for indecent exposure.”
Instead of scooting her at-risk ass back into her apartment, she stepped around the laundry basket and alongside his body. His muscles pulled painfully tight as cool silk slid over his suddenly hot skin. A challenge in the form of a smile curved her lips. “Well, Officer, here’s the problem. I can’t get dressed until I retrieve”—she rummaged in his basket and unearthed a wisp of red lace clinging to one of his undershirts—“these.” She peeled the lace. The fabrics separated with a snap of static.
A far more dangerous spark crackled along his nerve endings. Seemingly oblivious to the fire she played with, she turned her back to him and threaded one foot through the panties, then the other. The sight of the Band-Aid on her heel calmed him a little. This woman wasn’t as invulnerable as she tried to appear. But then she drew the lace over her calves. His calm burned away under a new assault of lust.
“I hope you don’t mind me tossing my undies in with your things.” Her robe rose higher as she guided the panties up her legs. He swallowed but didn’t look
