Page 17 of Iron Shield
He stuffed a coffee pod into the machine, aware of the minutes ticking by before they moved.
At the sound of a footstep, he looked up and froze, hand still on the machine.
Stina walked in. Wearing his shirt. And no pants.
“Oh good. You’re making coffee. I’m dying for a cup.” She twisted toward a shelf and went on tiptoe.
He damn near swallowed his tongue as the round curves of her ass—herbareass—popped out from under the hem of his shirt.
That was enough to make him forget that coherent thought existed, but it was the shadow between those round cheeks that had his cock stiffening to hard steel.
With a growl, he turned away.
“What?” The question sounded innocent, but after only a few hours with the woman, he knew she wasn’t.
“Nothing,” he gritted out.
“You growled.”
“Get dressed.” He closed his eyes before his gaze could drift back to places it had no business being.
When he opened them again, his gaze landed right on Stina. She was staring at him like he’d finally lost what little mind he’d started the day with.
“You know I don’t have any clothes.”
“Put on what you were wearing last night.”
“There’s another problem.” She lifted her hand to her hair and pinched a curl. “The shampoo and conditioner in this place aren’t going to work for my type of hair. If I use the stuff, my hair is going to get so big and frizzy I won’t fit in the room with you.”
His brain should have stayed focused on the hair on her head. Instead, it supplied an image of her standing in the shower.
Naked.
Wet.
Covered in bubbles.
Apparently some higher power had decided to test him today.
“You won’t be here long enough to shower. We’re leaving in twenty minutes. Get dressed.”
Her eyes widened. “I’m going home?”
He was sure this woman was far from stupid or naïve. So why was she continuing to purposely ignore the threat against her?
The little he knew about psychology suggested people processed fear in different ways. Stina seemed determined to pretend she didn’t have any.
“Go.” The order came out rougher than it would have if he wasn’t aching and hard and the woman wasn’t standing inches away wearing nothing but his damn shirt. His jaw popped from clenching it.
She spun, and the shirt swirled around her thighs. Before he could shut his eyes again, he caught another glimpse of those cheeks and the shadow between them, and suddenly every thought in his head took a sharp turn toward depravity.
While she got dressed, he fixed them each a travel cup of coffee. By the time she walked out again—still wearing his shirt, but her black jeans from the night before underneath it—they had only minutes before their escort arrived.
She dropped his go-bag on the floor. “You carry some weird things in there.”
He inflated his lungs to bursting and let his breath trickle out slowly. “It’s got anything I need.”
“A flashlight?”
