“You a doctor now?” I joke, but my voice is still tight. I’m still fucking mad. So goddamn mad. Some asshole was in here, in her fucking house. Not gonna happen again, not with me around. Just thinking about it makes me want to hit something else.
Cocking a brow, Samantha gives me a look, a look that says she doesn’t find me funny. “Are you crazy?” she fires back, looking from my face to my bloody hand, her eyes narrowed. “You broke my mirror, and I’m sure a couple of knuckles.” Pulling a piece of glass from the cut on my hand, she puts it on the paper towel draped over her knee.
“I’ll buy you a new mirror.” But I couldn’t give a fuck less about the knuckles. Wasn’t the first time they were broken, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. I get mad and I hit shit. It’s how I deal.
“I don’t want a new mirror,” she tells me, cleaning the blood from my hand with some serious determination. This isn’t her first rodeo. She’s too good at it, with a first-aid kit under her sink full of the good shit.
Me on her couch, Samantha’s on the coffee table between my legs, fixing me up. “I want an explanation,” she demands instead, dabbing a soaked cotton ball on my knuckles.
“For?” I ask, watching her use the hydrogen peroxide-soaked cotton ball to clean up the cuts. She’s so gentle, so sweet about it, like she’s afraid to hurt me.
“Why you showed up here and acted like a lunatic?”
She can’t be fucking serious. “Some guy, a stalker, broke into your fucking house and left flowers.”
“I know,” she mutters, shaking her head like I’m crazy. “I was here. Still doesn’t explain your crazy.” She laughs softly.
My crazy?
Jerking my hand from hers, I grab her face and bring it toward mine, serious as fuck. This shit’s not funny in the least. It’s not a joke. This is her life, something I take dead fucking serious. I don’t play around with that shit. “My “crazy” was because some fucking asshole broke into your house, might’ve still been in here while you were in here, and might’ve been plannin’ to hurt you and that shit makes me crazy fucking mad.”
“Okay,” she whispers, her face still in my hand and now streaked with blood. That shit sobers her up. “Sorry.” My words seem to have penetrated. She’s scared. She should be.
“Don’t be sorry, be careful.”
Taking my hand away from her face, I grab her hand instead, done with this shit. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” she asks, standing up when I tug on her, but digging her heels in when I try to take a couple steps.
“Clean your face and my hand,” I tell her, knowing damn well she won’t move if I don’t answer her. She’s stubborn to a fucking fault.
She brings her hand, the one not in mine, up to her face and touches her cheek. Looking at her hand, she sees the blood, and instead of saying something snappy or argumentative, she just nods, agreeing easily. “Okay.”
Walking past the kitchen, she mutters, “The pizza’s cold.”
I don’t stop, but tell her, “I’ll order another one.” I’ll get the woman whatever she fucking wants as long as she doesn’t fight me.
Halfway to the stairs, someone knocks on the front door, and I swear to fuck, my head feels like exploding. I’m so fucking done. “Jesus Christ,” I mutter, letting her hand go and leaving her on the stairs. “Wait,” I tell her. She nods, her feet not moving.
Walking over to the door, I jerk it open. There’s a prospect standing there, looking nervous.
“What?” I ask, leaning against the door and looking out onto the empty street behind him, my blood pressure starting to rise again just seeing those goddamn flowers.
“A black sedan drove by twice, real slow both times.”
“You get a license plate number?”
“It didn’t have one.”
Fuck. “A picture? Make? Model? Something?” This incompetent fuckface better have something for me.
He looks down at his feet. “No.”
I don’t say anything. I just shut the door and jerk out my cell. Punching in Dan’s number, I wait until he answers, and when he does, I say nothing more than, “Send a different prospect over here,” before hanging up and grabbing Sam’s hand again. I’m done with this shit.
Flipping on the shower in Sam’s giant shower, I turn it to hot and let the steam fill the small room. There’s girly makeup and hair shit around the sink, and a silky robe hanging on one of the hooks on the back of the door. Even her bathroom screams female.
“Hot, right?” I ask her.
She smirks. “How’d you know?”
“Just a guess. Most woman like it hot enough to boil noodles.”
The laugh, the soft sweet sound that comes out of Samantha’s pretty mouth, hits me in the chest. It’s painful. So sexy, but so fucking painful. “Boil noodles?” she asks around a breathy laugh.
“Whatever. Just get in.” I can’t get caught up. Can’t feel anything more for this girl than I already fucking do.
Grabbing the hem of her shirt, I urge her to lift her arms and peel her shirt off. “You’re the one with the broken hand, but you’re taking care of me?” She watches me chuck her shirt onto the floor, her eyes fixated on my hands.
“Get in the damn shower.”
She rolls her eyes and mutters, “Yeah, I’m going, pushy ass.”
Leaning back against the sink, I watch her shimmy out of her black slacks, her ass popping free from the material. Wearing a lacy black thong, I swear to Christ, my heart stops a beat or two. The woman’s a fucking sex goddess, every inch of her, and it’s all mine. At least she’s mine until she’s not.
“You’re staring,” she giggles, suddenly shy, her cheeks rosy.
“You’re takin’ too goddamn long,” I grunt, pulling my cut off and hanging it on the back of the door, next to her robe, followed by my tee which lands at my feet. Holding open the glass door, I lift a brow when she doesn’t move. “Get in.”
“Yes, sir,” she mumbles, stepping around me and into the shower.
This shit’s new for me, showering with a female. I’ve fucked plenty of club whores in bathrooms, outside behind bars, in beds, tool sheds, and shops, but this shit’s new for me. Different. Almost too close.
Walking into the shower and under the stream, I hiss when the scalding hot water hits my knuckles.
“You okay?” she squeaks, grabbing my hand, her tit brushing against my arm.
“Good.” Nothing a couple pain pills and a few shots can’t cure, or just her.
Running her finger along the slice in my hand, I snap. Her naked body and her hands on me are more than I can fucking take right now. Pent-up anger and a naked female don’t mix.
Never had my heart broken, don’t have one to break, but if I did, she’d be the one to do it. She’d destroy it. Ruin me. Fucking kill me.
“Need to fuck you, Princess,” I tell her, wrapping a hand around her waist and pulling her in. Eyes wide, she nods, not arguing. “Good girl.”
Nothing in my life is more satisfying than being inside of Samantha.