Taking the floor had been the plan.

By the time the cops had cleared out what felt like a lifetime later, it was daylight and Teagan was nearly translucent with fatigue. Ricki wasn’t much better despite the tough girl act she tried to put on for Teagan. The girl was in a sling with bruised half moons under her eyes and she’d been like a goddamn pitbull with the police, making sure they didn’t push Teagan too hard. Even when Teagan had appeared ready to cheerfully murder her, Ricki hadn’t backed down.

And neither was he.

“This is fine.” He punched the pillow Teagan had given him. She’d fluttered about, shoving sheets and a thin blanket at him and fussing that she could get the Airbed set up in a jiffy. Or she could make up the couch, or she could do a million other things to ensure his comfort.

He’d waved them all off. She didn’t need to be doing anything extra. He wouldn’t have accepted her efforts anyway.

This room was where he intended to be. Especially after the niggle that had taken root inside his brain during the police interrogation with Teagan. Something wasn’t adding up for him, and it had a little to do with a guy with a key leaving a door kicked in and a lot to do with the shitstorm they’d left behind in California.

But he’d remained silent, because he didn’t know what the pieces he was looking at added up to. Maybe nothing.

Probably nothing.

Still, he intended to wait. And watch her so fucking closely that she’d wonder if her shadow had grown a few inches—and not only to make sure she didn’t harm herself with bad choices.

Nope, he wasn’t going anywhere. Even if Ricki planned on talking him to death rather than letting him get some sleep.

“You’re being stupid. There’s plenty of room up here.” She patted the mattress beside her hip.

“Good. Enjoy it.” He twitched the sheet and blanket up over him.

In about five seconds, he was going to yank the bedding over his head. Fucking searing fireball burning his retinas.

“Is this because I came onto you? It probably wasn’t personal.”

“I assumed not. Why I said no. Goodnight.”

“For Christ’s sake, I’m not going to jump you. What do you think, that you’re so irresistible that if you’re on the same bed I won’t be able to control myself?”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

It had not. Not even close. But pissing Ricki off was the only entertainment he’d had during that shitty morning.

The true capper had been hearing Teagan crying in her bedroom when he’d gone to get another glass from the kitchen.

Fucking asshole ex. He’d gleefully teach him some respect if he ever showed up there again.

But of course, he wouldn’t when he realized Teagan wasn’t alone. That was how cowards like him operated. The bastard would lay in wait, and the second he and Ricki split, he’d be back.

It pissed him off there was fuck-all he could do about it.

The police were overworked and there were simply too many cases on their docket. Bottom line, this had been a property damage crime, committed by a disgruntled former tenant who’d still retained access to the property. Fancy words that meant they’d act all surprised when he came back to finish the job, except this time he’d hurt Teagan.

She was going to file an order of protection. It was something. Not nearly enough. Only the law-abiding types followed the rules. The rest enjoyed flouncing them.

And he wasn’t ever going to get to sleep, because Ricki was still yammering—from the bathroom this time at least. He didn’t even know what she was saying. The water was on, and she was talking in between spitting and brushing.

If there had ever been boundaries between them, living together for half the year in a rolling tin can had killed most. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d continued her conversation while she was on the john.

“By the way, you suck.” Flush. “And you should share the bed with me so you can wake up hard and not have a damn thing you can do about it.” Water turns on.

The thought made his lips twist as he pushed his face into the pillow. That wasn’t what she’d said—and she definitely hadn’t flushed—but imagining it was pretty funny.

And true. So pathetically true.

“Are you actually asleep?”

Her voice came from near his feet. Her palpable disgust made him cock open one eye. “Isn’t that the point of—”

Then he stopped talking. His heartbeat thudded into nothing.

Breathing? Nonexistent.

She was in her goddamned bra and panties. What. The. Fuck.

“That,” he finally managed, pointing at her. “That’s why I’m staying right here.”

Slowly, she lifted her injured arm. She’d removed the sling and some of the bandages beneath, revealing puffy, angry skin. When his gaze went to them, she lowered her arm.

“I know it looks gross.” She bent to snatch his blanket, wrapping it around herself awkwardly.

“What?”

“My arm. It’s all white and misshapen. And the cuts and bruises—”

“Jesus, you’re an idiot. You think that’s what I meant?”

She frowned, clutching the blanket at her throat like a nun. “Isn’t it?”

“No, I meant you’re practically fucking naked.”

She rolled her eyes. “Right. Except you already saw me naked and functioned just fine enough to reject me not once, but twice. Plus, I saw where you were looking. Nice try though.”

“Want me to ogle your tits next time? I’d be happy to.”

Saying nothing, she turned away to crawl onto the bed. Hearing her sharp intake of breath as she must’ve moved wrong and jostled her shoulder was just one more nail in his coffin.

Sleep? What was that?

He sat up and scrubbed his grainy eyes with the heels of his hands. “You don’t seriously believe that shit.”

No response.

Shaking his head, he glanced toward the bed. A navy-blue lump of Ricki was tucked against the wall, half on her back, half on her side. She was laying on her bad side, which had to hurt. But she’d wanted to get away from him.

How many times had they run that particular scene? Too many over the past couple of years. He’d done the same with her a few times, usually after one or the other had delivered a well-timed zinger. But he didn’t have the stomach for those games now.

God, she could make herself so small. Just tucked everything up and in until her long, lean body took up the minimum amount of space.

Not on his watch.

He jerked off the sheet and grabbed the pillow, stuffing it under his arm. “Shove over.”

It was a dumb statement. He’d already been worried about her resting on that side, so now he wanted her to move over more? But he wanted her to know he was coming. If she had decided she truly didn’t want him up there with her, she had time to state it clear.

“No.”

He didn’t know whether he should laugh or roll his eyes. If she’d been fully healthy, he would’ve used his pillow on her to vent some of his frustration. Since she wasn’t, he tried again.

“I would like to lay here with you,” he said through gritted teeth. “May I?”

She snorted and glanced over her shoulder. Only half her face was visible under her cloud of dark hair. “How much did that hurt?”

“A lot.”

“Yeah, being polite is one of those terrible things we all must endure.” She rolled all the way over onto her back, grimacing with the movement. The blanket slipped enough so that he got another glimpse of tonight’s—today’s—bra and panty set. Purple lace.

Sweet Christ, he was dead.

“Well?”

Right. He was supposed to get in bed with her.

Swallowing hard, he placed a knee on the mattress. “This is only a full bed.”

“You’re right.”

“I’m more than a full-bed kind of guy.”

“You sure are.” She let her gaze drift down his body and hell if he didn’t nearly flush. “But you sleep on the bus all the time, so clearly you can make yourself fit places.”

“You’re probably going to have to, ah, sort of sleep on top of me. And you can’t do that, because you’re hurt, so um, yeah, the floor works.”

She leaned up on the elbow of her uninjured arm, a smile playing over her witchy mouth. “Malachi Shawcross, are you scared of me?”

He scoffed. “Ridiculous.”

“You’re stumbling over your words and your ears are pink. It’s cute, really.” She angled her head, running her nail over her collarbone. “Why are you scared of me?” The question was soft, and not the least bit teasing.

So he was honest.

For once.

“I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid of me.”

“What? Why?”

Clutching his pillow, he stared over her head at the baby blue wall. It was meant to be a soothing color, but it didn’t do a damn thing to ease the clamor in his brain—and everywhere else.

“I don’t trust myself around you. I never have. So if you wonder if I was turned off by your arm, no.” He exhaled. “There’s no part of you that could ever turn me off.”

He expected questions. She deserved to ask them, but he didn’t intend to answer. He’d already given her so much more of himself than he’d ever intended.

And he ached to give more.

She tugged the blanket out from around her and kicked it down the bed. Then she extended her arm to him across her pillow. “There’s room for two.”

He should say no. This was madness. There was no way it could end well. Playing a game like this was one thing now, but in a few days, they’d head home and they would fall back into their regular roles. She’d go back to searching for love with all the wrong guys and he’d sleep with anyone who caught his eye. They’d snark at each other across the bus. He’d get to see her every night on stage, secretly proud every time she nailed her solos. But they wouldn’t be anything else to each other.

They couldn’t be.

If two people had ever been more different, he didn’t know them. No one—absolutely no one—wanted them to even be friends, never mind anything more.

And you care what anyone thinks exactly why?

He used the pillow to nudge her arm aside and she smiled, shifting more onto her good side so he had room to lay down. It wasn’t an easy fit. Stupid bed was too short too. But he made do.

“Extra wide and extra long too, huh?”

“Shut up.”

She traced her fingernail around his nipple—not touching it, just circling it like a bullseye. Why had he taken off his shirt again? He knew better.

Fuck, he might as well get that tattooed on his cock at this point.

“It was really nice of you to offer to stay here tonight.” She lifted her head toward the window to his left. “Well, today. She won’t admit she doesn’t want to be alone.”

He grunted.

“But I’m glad she isn’t. Not just because she has company, but if her ex comes back—God, I don’t even know his name. She never says it.”

Mal crossed his arms under his head and stared up at the ceiling. Her finger kept circling idly, and he wished he could grab the blanket and toss it over his groin. Then again, a pole salute wasn’t any more discreet.

He nearly groaned. Since when did he give a shit about being discreet?

“If he comes back, and you’re here, I know she’s safe. We’re safe. You wouldn’t let anything happen to us, and there’s no way in hell he could be stronger than you.” She swallowed deeply. “You don’t even know her, but you’d protect her too.”

What the hell was he supposed to say to that?

She pulled her hand away and he had an instant to regret the loss of her touch before she was curving up against his side, fitting herself to him as if she’d always meant to be there. Like they’d been one piece once upon a time and were finally interlocked again.

You need sleep. Big time. Possibly a lobotomy.

“I used to think your silences meant you didn’t care. But I hear your heartbeat.” She darted a glance at him underneath the heavy fringe of her eyelashes—dark, so dark, except at the tips where they were nearly white—before she placed her hand on his chest. It was a sheer miracle he didn’t hiss as if her skin was on fire.

Because his was. He was burning up.

“You’re not unaffected. Not even close.” She turned her head and he realized she was using her injured arm to touch him. Did she realize?

Probably not, since she was now staring at his denim-trapped dick.

“You need to sleep,” he said hoarsely, but she didn’t seem to hear him. She was sliding her hand lower, studying the muscles that bunched and jumped under her palm. Her nail skimmed his navel, and this time he did hiss.

She never looked up.

Her thumb grazed the dark hair that led down his stomach into his jeans. She didn’t stop at the edge of the denim. She followed beneath it, twisting her wrist and wincing with the movement until he caught a handful of her hair and made her look at him.

“Think about what you’re doing.”

“Why?” Her teeth flashed before she sank them in her lower lip. “I don’t mind if you pull my hair though.”

Jesus.

He kept his hold on her even as she flicked open the top button of his jeans. Just that little bit of relief caused him to let out a breath. When she tugged down the zipper, he tried to remember to tug on her hair. To draw her back.

But it was like trying to leash the wind. The devil was in her blue eyes, and he wasn’t that strong.

It was a goddamn miracle he’d withstood her this long.

She pulled apart the denim slowly, as if she were unwrapping a gift. Her caresses as light as air, her gaze so heavy he couldn’t breathe. Curiosity made the tip of her tongue sneak out between her lips, and as she peeled away his boxers, his fingers twitched in her hair. He wanted to kiss her so fucking bad he could taste the blood in his mouth from where he’d bitten his own lip.

But he didn’t move. This was her show too, just as last night had been.

He would always be her captive audience.

She drew him out carefully, her touch capable and sure. She stroked him once, twice, three times, while he counted back from one hundred in his head and prayed he wouldn’t embarrass himself.

“You may not be afraid of me,” she murmured, “but I’m afraid of you. Not a single fucking clue how this is going to fit in my mouth.”

The laugh tore from his chest, so jaggedly that he had to gasp for air. She joined him for a second, her eyes going damp with amusement, but then she found a different use for her mouth just as she’d forewarned.

His hand fisted reflexively in her hair as her lips covered the tip. They formed a tight seal and she sucked lightly, so goddamn lightly, that his balls clenched and he threw back his head. He was so wound up that if she went farther down, he wasn’t sure he could stand it.

Then she did, her hand leading the way before her mouth followed. Her arm jerked before she steadied her touch and some part of him rejoiced that the first thing she’d tried to do with her injured arm was this. Her nails dragged over his inner thigh and she squeezed her hand in time with the suction of her mouth. Her hair fell forward, trailing over his stomach, and painstakingly, he brushed every strand back, needing to see every freaking second.

Her cheeks hollowed and she sucked hard, making those wet, dirty sounds that made him crazy. He tried not to yank on her head, to drive her faster than she wanted to go, but Christ, her lashes were fluttering and her lips were so perfect, spreading wide for his dick. And she was squirming, her beautiful ass rising and falling as she worked him, that pale flesh like a target for his hand. He leaned up and reluctantly released her hair before he cupped one cheek, squeezing hard, savoring the moan that rippled down his shaft. Then he lifted his hand and let it fall, striking her skin with a sharp slap. She let out a strangled noise, her hips flexing hard before falling still.

Holy fuck, had she just come from blowing him?

He gripped her hair again, and this time, he wasn’t gentle or careful. He stared into her eyes, sinking into all that dreamy, satisfied blue, and fuck, that was the end of it.

He needed to put some of himself inside her. On her. Whatever way he could.

When he would’ve yanked her off him to give her the choice, she dove down farther, taking even more of him than before, her moans spurring him on.

“Ricki.” Her head shifted so that her gaze was locked with his as he hit the wall of his endurance. Then punched right through it, his hand burrowing into her hair and holding her head as his hips lifted and she swallowed and swallowed. Panting, he drained himself into her, his grip turning gentler as he softened.

She finally eased back and trailed her warm, wet tongue over his spent length, collecting the drops she’d missed.

There were damn few.

Then she straddled him, balancing herself with her good arm on his belly, crawling up to meet his mouth with lips that were flavored with him.

His hands came up to cradle her face as he turned her where he needed, licking her lips and inside, slicking his tongue over hers until he’d tasted her as thoroughly as she’d done with him.

Almost.

She rocked against his bare dick and he was already coming back to life. For her, only for her. That thin lacy panel between her thighs would be so easy to push aside—

He couldn’t.

Couldn’t.

“Not like this,” he breathed between kisses, so starved for her that he couldn’t pull away long enough to even speak. He wasn’t sure she heard him, but he couldn’t stop.

God, he wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life kissing her, right here on this stupid bed that didn’t even fit him. Except it did when she was on top of him.

At that moment, the entire world was fucking perfect.

He thought she’d argue—if she heard him. If not, they’d just keep doing this until they both died of asphyxiation. His head was already swimming, though that could’ve been because she’d frigging slayed him.

Was slaying him still.

When she finally slipped back, he leaned forward to follow her mouth before he caught himself. She was laughing at him, her wild dark hair flowing over her shoulders and framing the absolute delight in her eyes.

“Sure about that?” she asked, tucking her tongue at the corner of her lips.

He grabbed her by the waist and flipped her over until she was beneath him, gasping and laughing and holding her shoulder. There was no missing the pain that streaked through her expression along with the amusement.

Caused by him.

“Fuck. I shouldn’t have—I didn’t think.” He let her go immediately, but she grabbed his hand and brought it right back to her waist. Then she did the same with the other one.

“I like when you hold onto me.”

He swallowed hard and she lifted her hand, pressing her finger hard into his forehead. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop thinking. We’re not doing anything wrong.”

“It’s not that.” At least it wasn’t only that. “You’ve had a difficult time recently.”

“No shit, Sherlock. You too.” She cupped her hand over his on her waist and leaned up to meet his mouth in a hard, quick kiss. “Why we need as many orgasms as we can get.”

There were so many things he could—should—say. So many others he couldn’t. The last thing he wanted was to cause her to worry unnecessarily or to remind her again of all they’d gone through.

What she was still going through.

What waited for them, no matter how long they stayed away and pretended it wasn’t.

That wasn’t even considering the crap that was happening right where they were staying. He knew she was concerned about her friend.

She had reason to be.

But right now, it wasn’t about pretending everything was okay so much as giving her a few minutes to breathe. And maybe him too.

“Yeah, about that.” He shifted onto his side and jerked up his boxers and jeans, zipping and buttoning them despite her cute little pout. “How’d you pull that off, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“You really didn’t have to do that. I like the easy access.” She turned toward him and hooked her leg over his thighs, drawing him closer.

He tipped his forehead against hers and casually—so not casually—draped his arm over her waist. “How’d you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Come without me touching you.”

“Oh.” Her nose wrinkled and her cheeks went adorably pink. “Too many shitty boyfriends?”

He waited.

“Let’s just say I’ve been ready to go since we danced at the club and leave it at that.”

“When you were high.” His voice was flat, but it couldn’t be helped.

“Not just then. Last night too. I used to think I enjoyed a guy with moves but gotta say I like being the one who moves against you.” She shrugged. “Guess I got myself good and worked up and then having all that inside my mouth…” She licked the inside of her lower lip.

He rubbed his thumb over that lush, red, well-used flesh. “You’re trouble, Crandall.”

For once, her expression didn’t cloud.

“So are you, Shawcross.” She smiled. “And I like it.”