Blush(49)

A slip in the shower would work even better than a fall off a stepladder. Falls were the number one cause of unintentional deaths in the home.

Shower.

Stepladder.

Either.

He wouldn’t have to dress her if she fell in the shower. A bonus.

“I’m not cold—just the opposite, in fact.”

Her wet skin gleamed like pearl as she held out the hand towel. Cruz did not want to touch her. He looked at her extended hand as though she carried a machete and was about to chop off his arm. Less fucking painful than trying to control his rampant erection with no hope of release.

He was hot for her. That was a given. Great body, beautiful face. Undeniably smart and witty. He liked her, God damn it. Genuinely liked her.

But he always finished what he started.

Cruz knew he was grasping at straws as to why he hadn’t done it. Yet.

Cool, wet, gossamer-thin fabric brushed his bare chest as she stepped up against him, tilting up her chin so she could meet his eyes. “You’re dripping on my floor.” Her voice, husky and low, poured over him like hot honey. A fucking aphrodisiac that filled his senses until all he could think about was tasting her, touching her, fucking her until neither of them could move for days.

Damn it to hell, he couldn’t think straight when she was near him.

The hard buds of her nipples nestled in the hair on his chest as she dropped her hand clutching the small, useless towel. He didn’t need it. No doubt any water on his body had already turned to steam.

He didn’t grab her, but it was damn hard not to put his hands all over her sleek curves and valleys. Hands balled, he resisted her lure with everything in him until he shook with the effort of it, and sweat prickled his skin.

“I’ll clean up when you’re upstairs.” He kept his voice cool, controlled, impersonal.

No attachment. No emotion.

Clenched fists at his sides, he noticed that Mia was mimicking his no-hold policy, arms at her sides, posture tense. Good. Fine. It would just throw gasoline on his fire if she put her hands on him.

Ah. Hell. She put her pale, elegant hand on his chest. Lightly, just a brush of skin against skin. Cruz felt as though he’d been branded, and jerked instinctively.

She touched his jaw, then glided a finger across his mouth. “Come upstairs—we can shower together.”

“I prefer my showers alone,” he lied. Shower sex had always been good. He knew damn well it would be incredible with her.

Face flushed, she frowned slightly, and for a second she looked away, face shuttered.

Damn it. He’d hurt her feelings. He was being too callous. She wanted him, and he was rejecting her. He could just say no instead of making up shit. He was hurting her feelings, and he didn’t like it. As soon as he thought that thought, though, he almost groaned.

You’re here to kill her. Why the fuck are you concerned you’re hurting her feelings?

Hell, was it so wrong to want to give the woman one last fuck before she died?

Undeterred, and unaware of his thoughts, she slipped her hand in his. It felt incredibly fragile. Fragile. Vulnerable. And—God damn it—trusting.

Cruz realized that her skin flushed, not with embarrassment but when she was aroused. What kind of man was he that he had been with this woman for two days straight, having some of the best sex of his life, and not noticed this sweetly endearing trait?

The sight of her pink cheeks made his pulse race. As his fingers automatically tightened around hers, he knew he’d made the worst mistake of his life. He should have killed her when he first laid eyes on her. Now he was always going to remember that blush, that sweet, innocent hint of pink in her cheeks that revealed that she wanted him. Ironic that the last job of his life was the one that would tear at him the most, when the first was long forgotten and the ones in between had become nonevents.

His brain screamed time to get this over with, but he stood there, frozen.

Very deliberately he let his gaze wander over her: short hair damp from the rain, glossy under the too-bright lights, the telltale flush on her cheeks, the sparks in her blue eyes.

Horny and pissed were an irresistible combo.

His jaw went rigid with the effort not to touch her.

• • •

She gave his hand a little tug as she backed away. “Come upstairs with me.”

Eyes gleaming fever bright, he was clearly aroused just looking at her, which gave Mia some satisfaction. But the bulge behind his zipper was no match for his annoying willpower. Why he suddenly needed damned willpower was a mystery to her. It was as annoying as hell.

She wanted him, God only knew, but she damn well wasn’t going to beg him. She’d made her intentions abundantly clear, going several extra miles to show him just how much she wanted him. But she wasn’t willing to club him over the head and drag him to her lair to have her wicked way with him. Although the idea had enormous appeal.