Outside the door to her bedroom, Mal hesitated with his hand on the knob. In his other hand, he gripped a sack lunch he’d had the guy at the deli on the corner put together for her during the ten minutes he’d been gone from the building. Tuna on rye, crusts cut off. Because she always did that to her sandwiches. Ridiculous. The crusts were the best part, if the bread was worth eating.

But he wanted her to eat. She was already too skinny, and she’d consumed enough alcohol the night before to sink a buffalo. Never mind those stupid pills he’d taped under the mattress in his room. He’d probably get busted for drugs before he got out of the place. His luck.

Eh well, he’d rather get his mug shot on a blotter than be at the mercy of any drug. Especially since she wasn’t even happy after taking them. Her high seemed to last a frighteningly short time, and then she was even more morose than she’d started out.

Why she probably had used in the first place. That few minute respite made her think the crash was worth it.

He’d heard her crash through the waning hours of the night. Not wanting to miss it if she had a medical issue, he’d placed a kitchen chair outside her bedroom door and listened. Not moving. His only goal to ensure she made it to morning, long enough to sober up and for that shit to get out of her system.

Listening had almost been worse than lying in bed imagining she needed him.

Not him. Someone. Anyone else.

Never him.

She’d sung most of the time he’d been outside the door. And she’d wondered how he knew she could. She must not realize how often she did it, whether she was in a good mood or bad. Last night, he’d heard every ounce of the pain inside her in her voice, raw and unforgiving—to herself most of all. With every trip up and every hitching giggle, he’d had to brace his fisted hands against his thighs not to go in there.

Since he didn’t have a clue how to show her she was so wrong about herself—short of fucking her senseless, and then doing it all over again—he’d stayed in his goddamn chair.

Close to dawn, she’d finally fallen asleep. Four hours had passed. Exactly four. He had watched the minutes tick down on his phone, antsy and restless at not hearing any noises from within the room. Being away from the building for even ten minutes had been hell, and he’d sprinted to the deli and back. She could be fucking dead.

Or she’s just sleeping, dumbass.

He wasn’t anyone’s savior. Hadn’t that been proven in sterling clarity years ago? But he could play the part of AA counselor from hell, considering he’d lived that role before.

When he couldn’t wait a minute longer, he shoved open the bedroom door. She was curled up like a shrimp on the bed, knees up to her chest, still wearing the same clothes from the night before. Her tank had rolled up high enough he could just see the bottom of her bra. Some lacy concoction. Shocker. It matched the panties he could see peeking over the back of her low-rise jeans. A thong.

Just enough of a glimpse to make him sweat alone in bed tonight.

Her dark hair was spread over the pillows—except for the clump wrapped around the fist she’d brought to her mouth.

“No, no, no.” The whispers were barely audible. “Don’t, Daddy. Daddy, don’t.”

Mal’s stomach clenched so violently he feared he’d lose the breakfast he hadn’t eaten right beside her bed. Fuck, that couldn’t be what it sounded like, could it? He’d never heard anything like that from anyone. But family secrets could be locked in vaults with pretty thick locks. He should know.

And he couldn’t listen to another second of her whispering. She was starting to thrash now, her long legs kicking out as she pushed her fist against her mouth as if to stifle the words that kept on coming anyway.

“No, Daddy, please don’t. I love you.”

“Goddammit, wake up.” Mal tossed the lunch sack at the end of the mattress and hauled her up into his arms, turning with her as her huge, shocked blue eyes flew open. They weren’t even sleepy. She shot from unconsciousness to fully awake in a blink, probably due to the fact that he was carting her straight into the bathroom and it wasn’t an easy ride. She jabbed her knees into his sides and whaled on him with her good arm and made sounds that were generally capable of slicing a man’s eardrums into shreds.

“I’m putting you into the shower. You stink,” he said evenly, raising his voice over her objections.

She stared at him then lifted her arm to sniff beneath it. He would’ve laughed if her tight hold on his ribs with her knees wasn’t cutting off his air. She was like a boa constrictor, trying to squeeze the shit out of him.

A boa constrictor with the sexiest pair of tits he’d ever seen, bouncing indecently up and down while he fought to hold on to both her and his dignity.

An erection was the last thing he needed right now.

“I do not,” she said indignantly a second before she started hitting him again. Harder than before.

Little Ricki was no one’s delicate flower.

“Your nose must not be working. You sure as hell do.” He set her down and maintained his grip on her waist as he eyed her sling. “How do I get that thing off you?”

“Excuse me?”

He was already doing it on his own. She stopped flailing, but he was fairly certain it was from shock now. He wasn’t undressing her yet, but it was a close thing.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I told you, you’re dirty. Besides, we have practice. Bet you don’t want those losers to think you’re a filthy druggie.”

“Practice,” she sputtered. “I’m not practicing with them.”

“Yes, you are. Your solo concert was great, but you still need to learn the pieces like the rest of us, Einstein.”

She gaped at him. “You heard me?”

“Every word. Now hurry up and help me get this sling off so you can take off your top.”

“I can’t decide if you’re crazy or a pervert or I’m still asleep,” she muttered, still doing as he’d asked.

Once the fabric sling was off, he helped her take off her tank, then grabbed a plastic bag off the back of the commode that had held a can of bathroom cleanser—fucking nasty toilet, man—and wrapped it over her arm like a loose plastic tent to protect the bandages beneath. “Cute polka dots.”

She frowned at him before glancing down at her bra. “Pervert,” she decided.

“Take off your jeans before I do it for you.” His lips peeled back. “Trust me, you won’t enjoy it.”

Her grunt was pure disgust. She flicked open the button and started shoving them down one-handed until he raised his brows again. “What now?”

“You can use your other hand. Do it.”

“Um, hello, my shoulder—”

“Yes, and they popped it back into place. You have to start building back your strength.”

“Oh, you’re a doctor now? Where’s your stethoscope?” She stared right at his crotch, and if anything had ever been less of a come-on, he didn’t remember it.

Didn’t stop him from popping a boner anyway. Just because she was fucking staring at his dick, even through his jeans.

He was the biggest moron who’d ever lived.

“I know they told you that, so don’t play dumb.” He grasped a loose wave between his fingers. “You ditched the hair color, remember?”

Her eyes flashed, the blue turning fiery. “Did I ask you to touch me?”

“No, but I didn’t ask you to look at my dick either.”

Her flush was monumentally satisfying. As was when she turned around and yanked down her jeans, showing him every bit of that skimpy polka-dotted thong.

And her perfect ass cheeks.

“You can leave now,” she said in a thin voice tight with pain as she continued to roll the denim down her legs.

With both hands.

“You don’t know how to use this shower.” It was a fine excuse, and he leaned past her to twist dials and push buttons. Fancy shower, gross toilet. They didn’t go together, but you never knew what you were going to get in a rental.

Nor did he know what he was going to get with Ricki, who ducked under his arm and stepped into the shower. He waited for her to tell him to leave again—moment of truth—but she didn’t. Instead she waited until she was in his line of sight and undid the clasp of her bra. She held the sides closed for a moment, tilting her head. “It’s not like you haven’t seen me naked before.”

No, actually, he was practically certain he had not. Make that certainly certain.

But he didn’t correct her, because she probably would’ve put a halt to whatever was motivating her to dare him. Probably sheer orneriness.

Still—naked. And he didn’t care if that made him the pervert she’d accused him of being. It wasn’t as if he was going to get to see her naked any other way. Hell, this shit could fuel his fantasies for the next year.

His eyebrow climbed, and he continued turning the dials to adjust pressure and temperature. All the while waiting for her to realize no one played chicken better than he did.

No one.

She sighed and let the sides of her bra go before she slipped the strap off her good arm. He managed not to look at her tits until he’d helped her with the other strap and dumped the bra outside the stall.

When he did, he couldn’t stop.

She was built every bit as well as he’d guessed from the tight mold of her T-shirts. Sheer perfection. Small brown nipples that seemed to tighten under his perusal, full globes that swayed lightly as she shifted to push down her panties and kick them off. She tossed them outside the shower to join her bra then braced her hands on her hips and cocked her head. “Well?”

Fuck, he loved that she didn’t try to hide herself. No modesty here, false or otherwise. She was just what she was, take it or leave it.

After the night he’d spent listening to her sing and laugh and cry, he knew that attitude had to be at least half bravado, but right now, he did not care. His admiration of her kicked up another dozen notches.

And his desire to fucking run tripled.

“Well, what?” His voice was pure gravel, and he didn’t have the breath left to raise it above the rush of the water. She stood at the back of the stall just outside the spray, the water pelting the peeling polish on her toes.

“Well, I have seen you naked, numerous times. So there’s no reason you should be embarrassed.”

Holy shit, she expected him to strip down too?

He narrowed his eyes. “Are you still high?”

She tipped back her head and started to laugh, loud and long. He hadn’t heard her laugh like that fully since—since long before this week, that was for sure. She hadn’t even laughed like that last night when she’d been tripping and drunk.

“No. I wish. You think that shit lasts that long?”

Just like that, his libido cooled. She wished. So much for her realizing her mistake. He started to turn away.

“Wait.” Her shaky exhale made him stop. “I don’t really wish. I’m still—” She made a frustrated sound. “I can’t believe I did that.”

He didn’t say anything.

“I’ve never slipped in all these months. I barely allow myself Tylenol.” She let out a hitching laugh that sounded more like despair. “I don’t know if I can go back.”

“Go back to what?” he asked sharply, making the mistake of looking back at her. Those full breasts captivated him, along with that tiny teasing landing strip of downy blond hair on her mound, such a contrast to the tumble of dark hair around her shoulders. Only her trembling voice could drag his attention away.

“Home. To them. To being the me I was before.” She bowed her head and cupped her elbows in her hands, wincing a little with the movement. “I’m not even sure I can get back on a s-stage.”

It was her stutter that had him reaching behind his head to grab a fistful of his shirt. He pulled it up and off fast, not bothering with any ceremony. His hand went to his button and zipper, and he hesitated for only a fraction of an instant.

If this proved to be the moment from which there was no going back, he wasn’t going to deliberate. Wasn’t going to do anything but plunge in headfirst.

He undid the button and yanked down the zipper, then kicked off his boots and pulled the denim and his boxers down his legs. He didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. Seeing anything on her face at all would be too much. Trusting himself not to push her up against the wall and bury himself inside her was a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep.

Even if he’d only made it to himself.

Stepping into the shower, he pulled the shower door closed. He tipped his head back into the water, letting it beat against the tension in his neck and shoulders. He soaked in the hot needles of pressure, using them to distract from the heavy weight of his erection. There had been no hiding that. No wishing it away. She’d given him her honesty, so he’d given a form of his own in return. Not the same. Never the same.

She wouldn’t ever be ready to hear his honesty when it came to her. Just as he’d never be ready to share it.

“Will you wash my hair?”

He was still processing the question—and trying to blink water out of his eyes—when she turned and offered him the equally stunning view of her ass. Inky wet strands hung almost to the top of her cheeks, for fuck’s sake. That shit must weigh a ton.

His fingers were already itching to touch.

It was okay if she asked. If she wanted his hands on her, even in that small way.

He grabbed the bottle of shampoo the tenants had left for him. It was generic store brand and smelled of almonds. The most non-arousing scent in the history of the world. He poured some into his palm and set the bottle aside, ignoring the tremor that went through his hand. Thank fuck she hadn’t seen it.

Rubbing his hands together, he stepped closer. One step. Two. Three brought him up against her. Close but not too close. He held his hips back. She had to have seen, though he’d been too much of a coward to check. But he didn’t want to intimidate her with what it meant.

He didn’t expect a goddamn thing. This was already more than he’d ever hoped for.

“Just do it already,” she mumbled, and he nearly smiled.

One of them was brave, and it sure as fuck was not him.

He massaged the shampoo into her hair, not touching her scalp at first. He stuck to the length of it first, watching the way the thick waves soaked up the moisture.

“Not wet enough,” he muttered.

“Says you,” she muttered back, and he smothered a laugh as he gripped her waist oh-so-carefully and brought her backward. He stepped backward too, tilting his head as the water spattered over his shoulder and down his chest, splashing his painfully stiff cock. He managed to stifle a groan as he lifted her hair, letting the spray hit it more fully. Watching the suds he’d already added work their way down her long locks before swirling around her feet and disappearing down the drain.

He went back for the shampoo and added more to his hands. He gripped her hair more firmly, working in the liquid before pulling it down the length. Then he finally rubbed some into her scalp, gritting his teeth at the indecent sound she made.

It wasn’t a moan. God, so much worse. More like a cross between a whimper, a sigh, and a gasp.

His already aching dick levered up against his stomach.

Then she stepped back into him, swaying until he righted her with his arm around her belly. She made that sound again, and he knew it was because she’d felt exactly what she was doing to him.

“You’ve got good hands.” He barely had time to register the compliment before she flashed him a look over her shoulder with heavy-lidded eyes. “Wash me off now?”

Even grunting would’ve required more air than he had left in his lungs, so he nodded though she’d already faced forward again. But he wasn’t so gentle as he drew her back into the center of the spray with him.

And hit the cold water with his elbow, accidentally on purpose.

She squeaked and flailed away from him, spinning toward him with wild sudsy hair and mischief lighting over her face. Her laughter was like fucking sunshine, warming him despite the ice-cold water drenching him from head to toe.

“You did that intentionally,” she said over the driving water.

He jerked a shoulder. “Prove it.”

Instead she stepped closer again, keeping her gaze strictly on his face as she came as close as she dared. Any closer and his cock would be nestled against her stomach. As it was, he could feel the warmth from her skin as she braved the cold water with chattering teeth and a gleam in her gaze.

“You’re not finished,” she reminded him, tilting her head forward.

He grabbed a handful of her hair, dragging her head back until her big blue eyes locked with his. “What kind of game you playing, Crandall?”

“No game. Not my style.” She blinked and sputtered, spitting out water so it splashed on his chest. He was amazed his flesh didn’t fucking sizzle. “But I’m getting soap in my eyes.”

He switched their positions until she was directly under the spray and bumped up the temperature until it was lukewarm. No more heat. They didn’t need it. Any more and the damn bathroom was going to combust.

She kept her focus on his face as he grasped soapy handfuls of her hair and went through the meticulous task of getting her clean. All the way clean. He ignored his cock, figuring he’d use the tactile memory of all this wet silk between his fingers as more fodder for his jerk-off fantasies. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, angling her head to make it easier, watching him all the while.

Once he’d finished, she glanced up at his head. “Want me to do you now?” Amusement laced the little cocktease’s voice.

Rather than answer, he leaned around her and grabbed the bottle of peppermint-scented bodywash. He didn’t get why anyone thought that was a good smell, so he’d used it as sparingly as possible.

He also figured it was the perfect scent for her. So much better than that plum stuff she tortured him with on the regular.

But before he could dump some onto her, she grabbed the bottle and did the honors herself, quickly scrubbing the soap into her skin. She started with her arms, then swiftly moved to her breasts and lower, covering herself with suds. “This smells so good,” she said, taking a long sniff of her good shoulder.

“You’d think so.”

“You don’t?” She tipped the container and squeezed more onto her tits. Watching the liquid drip onto her curves was the sweetest torture, probably exactly why she did it.

Wench.

He grabbed the bottle back from her and took care of his own scrub down, directing his attention on being as fast as humanly possible. When he was done, she was still soaping her hips and upper thighs and he was probably going to kill her.

“You know, in Japan, they think if you save someone’s life, you’re responsible for them.” He waited a beat, hating the brief flash of pain in her expression. “No one would prosecute me for drowning you. Just saying.”

Her lips twitched and she took back the bottle, turning around to aim it over her shoulder at her back and ass. Bullseye.

More dripping. More wet. Christ. Maybe he should drown himself.

Or…

He took back the bottle and deliberately squeezed some bodywash on his cock. He gripped it and ran his hand up and down, moving slow and hard. Fuck the bubbles. If she was going to torment him, he was going to make her make that little whimper-slash-sigh-slash-gasp sound again, like she was doing right now.

She’d stopped pretending to wash entirely and was staring at his hand, her rapid exhales causing the shower door to fog up even more. He understood. If he kept doing this, just thirty more seconds—

But he stopped.

He turned toward the water, pretending he didn’t hear her deep inhalation. And he washed his dick off as fast as he’d washed the rest of him before wrenching back the shower door and stepping out.

“Towel’s in the cabinet under the sink,” he said over his shoulder, bypassing one of his own to walk naked into the room she’d stayed in before.

The second he shut the bathroom door behind him, he gripped his dick again.

This time, he didn’t stop.