Page 44 of Lock ’N’ Load

“Yes, please.” She stood beside him in front of the sink, and the smell of soap and shampoo wafted to his nose. “Do you have anything stronger? I’m exhausted, but I c-can’t seem to fall asleep.”

“Just beer.” He filled both glasses from the tap, handing one of them to her. “I can pick up something for you when I go shopping.”

Nodding, she took the glass. “I’ll take that beer.”

He padded to the refrigerator and snagged a bottle of River Horse ale, popping the cap off, then holding it to her.

She accepted the beer, but her gaze was on his chest. “Did the nurse put any ointment on those?”

“Some.” He watched her eyes wander from his pecs to his abs, and his cock began to harden. Gritting his teeth, he angled his body away from her so she wouldn’t notice the ever-growing bulge beneath his tight shorts, but she’d turned and left the kitchen without a word.

He blew out a breath. “Thank God,” he muttered. Not having sex in a while would do that to a guy, and he’d noticed lately that his body was on a short leash.

Opening the refrigerator, he snooped around for something to eat. Luckily, his friends had shopped, and the shelves were jammed with everything from steak and chicken to eggs, cheese, and every vegetable in the produce section. He reached for a package of cheese when he heard the same creaking in the hallway and lifted his head. Trista re-entered the kitchen, and he glanced down to see that the cool air streaming from the fridge had brought his wayward cock to heel. When he closed the door, he noticed the tube in her hand.

“You really should put some antiseptic ointment on those cuts.” She squeezed a dab of pale-yellow cream onto her finger.

You? The ointment was on her finger.

Taking several steps closer until she was standing directly in front of him, she reached out tentatively, pausing to lock gazes with him for a heartbeat before dabbing cream onto the longest of the cuts, the one on his right pec.

Her touch was gentle, soothing as she daintily massaged the cream into the laceration with the tip of her finger. When she finished with that cut, she moved on to the one immediately below it, near his right nipple. His nipples weren’t normally an erogenous zone, but holy shit.

He willed her not to look down at the bulge growing again. Thankfully, she was concentrating on what she was doing. Her brows furrowed, and the creamy skin over her nose crinkled as she worked diligently to administer ointment to all the abrasions on his torso.

She really was a tiny thing, the top of her head barely reaching his pecs. Taking a step closer, her tantalizing scent filled his lungs, and he couldn’t stop himself from breathing deeper.

“Your nursing skills are exemplary,” he said, surprised at the husky tone of his voice.

Without looking up from her ministrations, she smiled. “It’s a hidden talent.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask what other hidden talents she possessed. He didn’t, knowing it would come out screaming even more of sexual innuendo.

She’d made it to his lower abs, and when her fingers began massaging a large cluster of tiny scrapes, he flinched, but not from pain.

“Baby.” She snickered, glancing up. Her nostrils flared. Her eyes roved his face, then down his chest and back to his abs. She squeezed out another blob of cream and dabbed it onto a different spot. A lower one.

Her touch was getting waaay too close to ground zero. The skin above his waistband tingled, and he suppressed a shudder at the goose bumps parading up and down his back. Worse, his balls had grown tight, and he was hardening again like nobody’s business. It felt…good.

The thought had the same impact as dousing both heads of his body with a bucket of ice water, and he was hit with the familiar, sweeping tidal wave of guilt that drowned him whenever he began to enjoy something in his life.

It was Matt’s fault that his best friend would never know the gentle touch of a woman’s fingers on his chest, inhale her delicate scent, or experience the aching pleasure of burying himself inside a woman’s body.

So as much as he wanted to let Trista dab his entire body with ointment, he gently, but firmly, clasped her wrist and tugged it from his chest. Every bit of her warm skin he touched branded his fingers, singeing him with regret. Raising her brows, she gazed up at him in question. But he’d never tell her the answer. Ever. He was damaged goods and always would be.

“Go to bed, Trista.” The minute the words were out of his mouth, he felt like a shithead. It was as if he’d just kicked a puppy. The flicker of hurt in her eyes was unmistakable but necessary in order to give him distance and to ram home the inevitable reality he was doomed to live with for the rest of his life. Solitude.

Turning away from her, he braced his hands on the porcelain farmhouse sink and waited until he heard her receding footsteps on the kitchen tile and the stairs creak as she went up to her bedroom.

He dragged a hand down his stubbled jaw, unwillingly facing facts he’d been trying to deny. Thoughts of Jerry had been intruding more and more lately, nearly every day, in fact.

Ever since he’d met Trista Gold.

Chapter Thirteen

Trista woke to dappled sunlight filtering in through the wooden slat blinds and stretched her arms over her head. The beautiful antique clock on the bedside table told her it was two o’clock. She’d slept a much-needed, solid eight hours and felt significantly better than she had when she’d fallen into bed.

What she’d done last night in Matt’s kitchen was so not like her. It was as if her alternate personality had been released. Rubbing ointment all over his perfectly toned, incredibly muscled body… She’d been like a woman possessed. The memory had her groaning in embarrassment.