Wildcard a westbrook eli.., p.14
Wildcard : A Westbrook Elite Standalone, page 14
And once she knew everything, she wouldn’t trust me at all.
18
Landry
He warned me off in the bathroom at Shirley’s. He kept his distance even when I felt his eyes. He gave me a safe word because he worried he’d be too rough and stopped in the middle of sex to check in even when I didn’t use it. His first reaction when someone was drowning was to call for help, and his first action was to give them his breath.
He went with the cops after my father told them his secrets and then refused to take a part of me he wanted, a part I’d offered, because he feared my trust was misplaced.
This was what my heart already understood. What his words would never change. He could tell me not to trust him all he wanted, but the truth was he’d already earned it.
“Maybe we should talk,” I said, pushing up off his chest to sit cross-legged at his side.
A grim look stole over his handsome features, but he reached out to cover the side of my knee with his palm. “Yeah.”
“Can I borrow a shirt?”
“I like you naked.”
Reaching out, I dragged my fingertips across his defined abs. “I like you naked too.”
He caught my hand and kissed the backs of my fingers, making my stomach drop. “How about a shower?”
“Are you procrastinating this conversation?” I teased.
His quiet reply took a chunk out of my heart. “Can’t blame me for wanting to keep you a little longer.”
“Jason…” I began, but he was swinging his legs over the side of the bed and putting his back to me.
I was momentarily distracted by the sight of his broad, strong shoulders and the sudden urge to reach for him. Instead of denying myself, I moved forward, slipping my arms around him from behind and pressing my naked torso against his bare back.
He made a sound of surprise and stiffened, but barely a heartbeat later, he melted into me, body going soft. I smiled against him, pressing a kiss to the back of his shoulder.
“I’m not going anywhere.” I promised.
“I won’t hold you to that.”
“Did no one stay by your side?” I asked quietly as sorrow filled my heart.
His body went rigid, and I tightened my arms. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, voice harsh.
“I know you deserve better than what you got.”
With a sound, he ripped away, the move so sudden and so rough that I pitched forward with a strangled cry as I tumbled off the bed.
He cursed, catching me just before I smacked against the floor and lifted, cradling me against his chest. The sweat on my skin was drying, and I shivered a little against the cold.
“How about that shower?” I asked, laying my cheek against his shoulder.
He carried me into his private bathroom—seriously, Elite got the best of everything—but didn’t set me down before reaching in to turn on the spray. Only after checking that it was warm did he step inside with me still in his arms.
Water rained over his back and shoulders, rushing in thick rivulets over his chest to slip between where my skin met his. The warm temperature caused goose bumps to race across my body.
“You’re cold,” he observed, his voice intimate and husky in the enclosed shower, and I lifted my chin to his downturned face. The darkness of his stare was secretive, and thin ribbons of water slid over his cheeks from the back of his head.
He moved to put me down, and I made a sound of protest, wrapping my arm around his neck.
“Just one more minute,” I whispered.
A sigh moved through him as he tucked me in tighter. I rested my cheek on his shoulder, rubbing against him with an exhale. Obviously still bothered I was cold, he rotated so I was beneath the spray, the sinfully hot water chasing away the chill.
Neither of us said a word, the quiet folding around us protectively. The air turned balmy under the heat of the water, and I melted against him, nearly lulled to sleep. My comfort level with him was unmatched, something to marvel at considering his temperament and murky past. But I was a firm believer in vibes. Vibes never lied, and my gut never steered me wrong.
And everything in me screamed Jason was safe. That he was mine.
That’s right. Mine. I guess he wasn’t the only possessive one.
“The water’s gonna get cold if we stand here much longer.” His voice roused me.
“I don’t care.”
I felt his silent laughter. “You will when you’re rinsing off soap with ice.”
I grumbled, and he put me down, keeping his hands on me until I was steady. He washed me first, soaping up my body, going as far as to kneel at my feet. When I was squeaky clean, he washed himself while I shampooed my hair.
“You need color-safe shampoo,” I told him even as I sniffed the scent I recognized as his. “And sulfate-free.”
He made a rumbly noise as suds clung to his shoulders and pecs. “Soap is soap.”
“It is not!” I declared, flinging my hand and smacking him with a glob of the shampoo stuck to my fingers.
He glanced at the giant white foam and then back at me. “You do this?”
I giggled, then whacked him with another blob of bubbles.
He tossed the soap down and grabbed me, digging his fingers into my ribs. I shrieked and tried to pull away, but the shower was so small I didn’t get far.
“Insulting my shampoo,” he swore, going back to tickle me some more.
I twisted away, laughter bursting from my chest. “You insulted my car!”
“That car is an abomination.”
I gasped. “If soap is soap, then a car is a car.”
“You leave me no choice,” he intoned and reached around me to turn the shower knob to cold.
Shrieking, I leaped at him, climbing up his body and cringing away from the icy water. “Jason!” I hollered. “That was mean!”
“You insulted my Vette, baby. Retaliation was imminent,” he mused, turning so I wasn’t in the spray at all and it smacked into him instead. He didn’t even flinch against the icy droplets.
“Car snob,” I muttered.
“Soap snob,” he countered and reached back to adjust the temperature.
Since he didn’t put me down, I grabbed the shampoo that I prayed didn’t strip the color from my hair and used it to wash his. As I scrubbed, he hummed in satisfaction, his long black lashes sweeping down against his cheeks.
Some of the suds dripped over his forehead to catch on his brow, and I swiped the bubbles away before they could leak into his eyes.
“Rinse,” I told him, pushing his head so he would tilt it under the spray.
When it was completely rinsed and his black hair was glossy and pushed off his forehead, I pulled back. “I’d condition it, but you don’t have any.”
He laughed like he thought that was funny, but really, hair care was no joke.
“I’m probably gonna look like I belong in some eighties hair band the rest of the day,” I muttered when he put me down so I could rinse as well. Eighties rock bands were the best, but their hair? Hard pass.
Comfortable silence closed in again as we finished up and the time we spent procrastinating wound down. I sensed his trepidation, noted the resolved set of his jaw.
“Jay,” I whispered, laying my palm flat against his chest. I wanted to tell him not to worry, that nothing he said could change how I felt.
He didn’t let me speak at all, instead curling his large palm around the curve of my waist and tugging me into the center of his body at the same time his mouth claimed mine.
I moaned deep in my throat, the force of it vibrating my tongue. He copied the sound, pulling me even closer, and kissed me like he might never kiss again. This kiss was different, not like the ones that came before it. Usually, he was desperate and fierce, burning with untamed need. It was always wholly devastating… but so was this.
Right now, Jason didn’t kiss to claim. He kissed because he wanted to. Like he found reverence in my lips. It was slow and intimate, lazy but thorough, as he left not one part of me unexplored.
When he finally lifted his lips, he stayed mere inches from me, staring at me in worship. If I wasn’t already thoroughly besotted and completely drunk on this man, the soft adoration in his usually apathetic eyes would have brought me to my knees.
I blinked slowly, trying to clear some of the haze he inspired, but the brush of his knuckles across my cheek made it a losing battle.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his words not breaking the spell, merely enhancing it.
“For what?”
“Being mine for a while.”
Oh, my heart.
He thought this was goodbye. It was only just the beginning. Clearly, he was going to be a handful for life.
Scowling, I planted my fists on my naked hips. “This is exactly why you need a sulfate-free shampoo.”
He blinked, caught off guard. “Uh, what?”
“Because that chemical-laden floor wax parading as hair care washed all the good sense right out of your brain.”
His eyes widened, then narrowed. “What did you just say to me?”
I rolled my eyes. “I said you’re an idiot.” I shook my head and sighed. “But you kiss real good.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, the action accentuating his biceps and the way the water clung to his skin. “I don’t know if I should be pissed off or flattered.”
I considered it. “Both?”
He laughed under his breath, the softness in his face making my heart flutter. Reaching around, he shut off the water and pushed open the glass door so he could grab some towels. The air out in the bathroom was frosty compared to the steam inside the shower, and I recoiled when it brushed over my wet skin.
“Here,” he murmured, draping a towel over my back and tugging it closed around my shoulders. His large hands settled over my arms and rubbed thoroughly, generating warmth and drying me at the same time.
Despite the cold, I didn’t even help him. I stood there staring, taking in his prominent cheekbones, strong nose, and lips. His lashes were downturned as he focused on drying me, and his black hair dripped over his forehead. The muscles in his shoulders flexed as he furiously rubbed the water off me. His upper body was so toned even his clavicles were defined, and I thought brazenly of biting them.
“Take a picture. It’ll last longer.” His voice was gruff.
He definitely was not a shy man, so why did that almost seem shy?
Still slightly entranced by him, I reached up, tracing along the bone I suddenly found so sexy. “I don’t need a picture because I plan to look at you anytime I want.”
He stepped out of the shower, leaving the door wide for me, and dripped all over the floor while he toweled himself off.
After readjusting the towel around me, I stepped out, shutting the glass door behind me. I let out a breathy gasp when he spun and picked me up, plunking me down on the small counter. One of my butt cheeks hung over the sink, but I barely noticed because of the way he crowded me, caging me in with his strong body and arms planted on either side of me.
“Stop saying shit like that,” he ordered, voice dark.
I sniffed, turning my head a little because he wasn’t about to tell me what I could do. Unless, of course, we were in bed… because then it seemed I would anything he asked. Anything at all. And I’d like it.
I pursed my lips, about to tell him what I thought about his overbearing ways when his hand caught my chin. I guess I expected him to pull my face around, but he didn’t. Instead, he angled it a little more away. Surprised, I gazed at him out of the side of my eye, wondering what he was up to now.
This man was always up to something. Always.
Using the grip on my chin, he shifted me again and grunted as he stared.
“Are you staring at my nose piercing?” I asked, partially amused because it seemed like he would turn me this way and that so the small diamond stud would catch the light and sparkle.
When he didn’t answer, I sighed. “You made it quite clear before you don’t like it, but I do.”
He turned my face so our stares collided. His was so dark and delicious it was unfair. “I was just pissed off you went and got more beautiful since the last time I saw you.”
I sucked in a breath. “So you like it?”
He made a quiet sound and leaned in, pressing a kiss to the side of my nose. “Of course I do.”
I ducked my head, giddiness running rampant through my middle because of his words. “I always wanted it, but my mom was totally against it. Plus, I was competing, so…” My explanation trailed away as I briefly wondered why I felt the need to explain at all.
“It’s beautiful, baby. Just like you.” He kissed my nose again.
How was I supposed to survive this man? He was equal parts intense and soft.
“You hurt your shoulder, right? Your rotator cuff.”
I nodded. “You remembered?”
His mouth crooked up at the corner. “Hm.” He agreed. “Which one?” he asked, shifting back so he could look between them.
I gestured to the right one.
His hand curled around my towel-covered hip, and he leaned down, brushing his lips across my bare shoulder. My brain short-circuited. I felt it crackle with overload. He was so unbelievably sweet when he wanted to be.
“My dad told me you were accused of murder.”
He jerked back like he was shot. The loss of his lips on my skin momentarily stunned me. Well, that and the fact I’d just blurted it out like that. I told you he short-circuited my brain. Or maybe I just wanted him to stop acting like I was going to evaporate in the palm of his hand.
No more procrastinating. No more assuming the worst of me. Frankly, it was offensive.
He paced back, the towel knotted at his hips. “So he did tell you.”
“I told you he did.”
He grew agitated. The softness I’d glimpsed in him dissipated to give way to his usual formidable exterior. “What else did he say?”
“That they didn’t have enough evidence to prove it, so you were released.” I paused, and he gestured for me to say the rest. “And that she drowned. She was found in a pool.”
“She didn’t drown.” His voice was tight, almost angry.
I wanted to ask how she died, but it seemed like such an insensitive question, and his body was already practically vibrating with tension.
“Are you afraid of me?”
I jolted, eyes flying to where he stood. His eyes were penetrating and unreadable.
“What? No,” I said, shaking my head.
Something flickered in his stare. Something that looked a lot like relief. “Then why are you hesitating?”
He was shrewd, good at reading a room. A person. I wondered if it was because everyone around him thought he was a killer.
“Because it seems insensitive to ask for details about something that is clearly very painful for you.”
He laughed. Shoving a hand through his hair, he paced in the small bathroom, suddenly looking like a caged animal. “If that’s true, you’d be the first one to ever consider how I felt.”
“Jay,” I said, affronted that no one had ever considered his feelings before.
He stopped pacing. “I’ll get you a shirt,” he uttered and then raced out the door.
“It’s inside my jacket,” I called behind him. I sat there on the counter and waited, my butt cheek starting to go numb.
I heard a few banging drawers, and when he came back, he was dressed in a pair of hip-riding black joggers, the towel he’d been wearing draped around his neck.
He came forward and extended his hands, which were filled with clothes. My leggings and white crew socks, the T-shirt I’d been wearing beneath the windbreaker at the pool, and another shirt. A shirt that was not mine. I gazed up at him, but he refused to meet my eyes.
I took the leggings and the socks, draping them over my lap, and then reached for a shirt. I practically felt him hold his breath. I felt how hard he tried not to look at what I reached for, how much effort he put in to make it look like he didn’t care.
He cared.
He cared so much it nearly suffocated me. So much that I found it surprising he would even silently offer one of his shirts to me at all. Almost as if it were a test. Or some kind of self-inflicted torture that he clearly thought he deserved. He obviously expected me to grab my own shirt and snub the one he quietly held out.
If only he knew I’d walk across campus naked in the freezing temperatures before I chose the shirt that was not his.
My fingers trembled as they brushed over the cotton material, something inside me knowing this was a huge moment for us and not even at all about a shirt.
I picked it up and pulled it into my lap, noting how he still refused to look and the tight lock he had on his jaw.
Holding out the dark T-shirt, I took in the design and smiled. “You like Aerosmith?”
He jerked, eyes flying to what was left in his hand. My discarded vintage Def Leppard tee. It was my most favorite shirt… Well, until he handed me one of his. His hand curled around the fabric, and it wrinkled beneath the grip.
“Vintage band tees are my favorite,” I said, acting like my insides weren’t somersaulting and his incredulous reaction wasn’t realigning my universe.
The fabric was well-worn and soft when I tugged it over my wet hair. I pushed my arms through and then tugged the towel off my body so it could fall around me, the hem hitting the counter. I hummed happily, brushing my hands over the fabric.
“Comfy.”
“Don’t you get it?” His voice was strained.
“I get that a girl died and everyone accused you. There wasn’t enough evidence to prove it, so the police had to let you go. I’m also assuming that everyone around you thought you were guilty, and that’s why you moved all the way across the country.”
“You haven’t asked,” he said, still gripping my unwanted T-shirt, still refusing to meet my eyes.
I took a breath. “How did she die?”
He made an angry sound and shoved away from the counter. “Not that!”
“Then what?”
“If I did it!” he roared. “You haven’t even asked me if I did it.”
