Lori Foster - Dash of Peril

“It’s a weakness and there’s no point in advertising it.”

“Huh. Well, if it makes you feel better, I would be groaning.”

She shocked him by pushing to her feet and leaning into him, her splinted left arm caught between them, her right hand flattening on his chest, her fingers in his chest hair. “Kiss me.”

Whoa. He hadn’t expected such an aggressive assault, given her state. “I don’t think so.”

“It’ll make me feel better.”

But it’d kill him—since she couldn’t do anything beyond a simple kiss. “Not a good idea.”

“You don’t want me?”

“You already know I do—” When her hand snaked down his body to cup him through his jeans, he froze.

“Yes,” she said with purring satisfaction. “You do.”

Dash groaned as she cuddled him.

“Better,” she murmured. “Why don’t you groan and I’ll continue manning up.”

Jesus, even boggled with meds she was doing him in.

It took a lot to step back from her exploring hand, but Dash managed it. “I said no.” Her mercurial mood swings had him braced for anything.

But not for her to snuggle up against him. “You’re right, I am cold.”

A perfect segue. He allowed his arms to go around her, his hands to stroke down her silky back to that lush little bottom—God, she had a great ass—before he got it together and raised his hands to her waist, which really was still sexy enough to make him cramp. “Let’s get you dressed and in the bed so you can sleep.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll make use of a quick shower, too. Okay?” Without meaning to, he dropped his hands to her hips.

One day soon, he promised himself.

He should win some type of award for restraint under extreme circumstances. “The doc said I only needed to check you every three hours. Hopefully that can be accomplished without disturbing you too much.”

“And what will you do?”

“I’ll kick back on your couch and watch some TV.” Dash summoned his most serious expression. “Now, what do you say we get the shirt on you, then I’ll help you to step into your panties, then your bottoms.”

Her heavy eyes watched him with suggestion. “The drawstring yoga pants will be easy enough.”

“Good.” He wasn’t really in the habit of dressing women. Undressing them, sure. But never while worrying about causing pain.

“One thing.”

“What’s that?” Stop stroking her, damn it. He ordered his hands to be still.

“Instead of going to the couch, why don’t you stay with me? After your shower, I mean.” Her gaze went smoky. “My bed is plenty big enough.”

Shoot me and get it over with. “I can if that’s what you want.”

“Thank you.”

When was the last time he’d slept with a woman without having sex? Never.

“Now just stand still and I’ll do everything.” Trying not to move her arm at all, he inched the sleeve up and over her swollen hand, her bent elbow encased in plaster, and up to her shoulder. He pulled the shirt around her back and helped her ease her right arm in.

Logan’s shirt swam on her. Dash pulled it together in the front. It was almost as loose as the robe had been.

Aware of his knuckles brushing her body, he started at the bottom, near her thighs, and buttoned it up—past the springy pubic curls, her taut belly, that narrow rib cage and her heavy breasts. “Better?”

Oblivious to the growl in his tone, she said, “Yes.”

“We need to get your sling on you, too.”

“It’s uncomfortable.”

“It’ll keep you from hurting your—”

“No.” She turned away, heading for the top of the bed.

Dash stared for a second before asking, a little desperately, “What about your panties and yoga pants?”

“Too tired.”

Torture. He moved up past her. “All right, then. Let me help.” He folded down the bed, plumped her pillow. “Sit down.”

“You’re awfully bossy,” she complained around a yawn, but she sat and let him help her ease back. Stark pain darkened her expression until she got situated, then she let out a shaky sigh and closed her eyes.

Dash sat on the bed beside her. He brushed back her bangs to see her stitches, and realized she was already falling asleep.

It was a dangerous game to play, but he did it anyway. “What about your family, Margo? Are they glad you weren’t a boy?”

“We don’t complain.”

He had no idea what that meant.

“We’re strong and independent,” she whispered, her voice fading. “You’re expected to do things right. And if you do things wrong...”

She sounded like a lost little girl, and it broke Dash’s heart. “What if you did it wrong?”

She was quiet for so long Dash thought maybe she’d gone to sleep. He stayed still, unwilling to leave her yet.

Her eyes opened. “They didn’t complain when they got me instead of a boy.”

Bastards. It wasn’t easy, but Dash kept the anger from his voice. “What did they do?”

She released a long breath and closed her eyes again. “Petersons accept what they cannot change, and they make the best of it.”

Dash watched her fade away—and decided it was past time for him to learn more about Lieutenant Margaret Peterson.

* * *

THE BRUSH OF DASH’S calloused fingertips against her cheek woke her. Sluggish, she struggled to get her eyes to open. Her drapes were shut so only slivers of daylight filtered in, leaving the room dim.

Stretched out next to her on the side of her bed, Dash rested without a shirt. Nice.

“Hey, sleepyhead. Sorry to bother you.”

She started to move, and pain coursed through her.

Dash’s hands settled on her shoulders. “Shhh...be still.”

Reality crashed in on her. “The wreck.”

“You remember what happened?”

Using only her right hand, she touched her forehead where she’d gotten the stitches. “I remember.” As long as she didn’t move too much or too quickly, the pain abated.

“Good.” He bent and put a butterfly kiss to her forehead. She didn’t quite understand that, but it was nice so she said nothing. “I have to ask you a few things.”

Right. The neuro test because of her concussion. She gave a very slight nod.

Voice husky and deep, Dash went to a series of questions, asking for her name, if she knew how she’d gotten home, the day of the week.

Lastly he asked for her birthday.

Odd, but whatever. She told him because she wanted to return to the oblivion of sleep.

He didn’t let her.

He wanted to know if she’d gotten any gifts, how she’d celebrated...and she told him. She’d bought herself a car, and celebrated alone—as she always did.

Somehow, she knew that had made him sad. She felt it in how he touched her, the murmured words of “next time.” Meaning...what? That he’d be around to celebrate her next birthday with her?

A nice thought.

When next he woke her, he helped her to sit up and insisted she take two aspirin.

“Do you need the bathroom?”

“No.” She sank back to the bedding—with Dash’s help—and closed her eyes.

“You know the drill, sweetheart.”

He used an awful lot of endearments. When she had her wits again, she’d set him straight on that. Anticipating his questions, she said, “I’m Lieutenant Margaret Peterson. Thirty years old. I’m in my own home.”

“Good.” He brushed the backs of his knuckles along her jaw. “Favorite food?”

Sleep tugged at her, and she mumbled, “Mmm, maybe fried chicken.”

She heard his smile when he said, “Favorite color?”

“Sky blue.” Such odd questions, but the sooner she got through them, the sooner he’d let her get back to sleep.

“The last man you slept with?”

“I don’t know.”

Dash hesitated, then asked, “You don’t remember his name?”

“Never knew it.” She let out a long breath. “Names are a nuisance.” When she hooked up, all she wanted was escape from the duty of her own choices. And thinking that, she faded into a dream about faceless men who served a distinct purpose, no strings attached.

Unfortunately, at the height of the dream, the multiple men morphed into one—Dash.

And not a single inch of her was numb.

ON HIS BACK, his hands stacked behind his head, Dash stared at the ceiling. After scrounging for food in Margo’s kitchen he’d taken a quick shower and changed into clean boxers and the borrowed athletic pants that Logan had brought him. Typical of Ohio weather, the day brought a big turnaround. Snow and ice gave into a slow melt beneath a blazing sun and milder breezes. The forecast claimed they’d be in the sixties tomorrow.

He’d awakened Margo twice now. An equal number of times Ollie had come to check on her. He wasn’t the type of cat that Dash could play with. Older, slower, set in his ways, Ollie enjoyed a little petting, edible treats and plenty of time for napping in the sunshine.

Oliver was a sweet old guy...taken in by a very tenderhearted lieutenant.

She was such a fraud, charmingly so.

Who’d have ever thought it? He’d bet his last nickel that neither Logan nor Reese knew Margo owned an ancient blind cat who missed the cat box.

They also didn’t know that, when her defenses were down, she was as soft and vulnerable as a woman could be.

The conflicts in her personality left him in turmoil.

He wanted to fuck her. Bad.

From the moment he’d laid eyes on her, all starchy and buttoned-up and in command, he’d wanted to break through her defenses with a good old-fashioned lay.

But he also wanted to make love to her. Endlessly.

He wanted to kiss her from head to toes, lingering at warm, damp places in between. He wanted to show her that she didn’t have to be strong, not with him.

She could lean on him when necessary, and he’d support her, always.

He wanted their relationship to matter.

He wanted to leave an impact in ways both physical and emotional.

Locking his hands to keep from turning to her, touching her, he stared at that damned ceiling and planned his next move. It was going on five o’clock, and in a few more minutes he’d need to check her again.

She was so complex.

While drugged and exhausted, she’d tried to seduce him. He had a feeling that, now better rested, she’d wake with new determination to send him packing.

He was just as determined to stay, to pamper her. To have her.

I don’t know his name.

How could she not know the name of a man she’d slept with? Delirium from her concussion? Forgetfulness because the encounter had happened so long ago? Or lack of caring, because sexual involvement didn’t matter that much to her?

Or...had Margo indulged a one-night stand with a complete stranger? Dangerous, except that she wasn’t a helpless woman. Far from it.

Did she often hang in bars looking to hook up?

He could accept that; she was a beautiful, smart, independent woman, and hey, he understood sexual urges—and the lack of interest in commitment. But his back teeth locked when he thought of her admiration for Rowdy. At least that was one interlude he knew would never happen. Rowdy Yates was many things—a good friend, a dangerous rebel, a terrific business owner.

And a loyal family guy. He would never cheat on Avery.

Dash was still sorting through his thoughts when he heard the soft moan.

He went still at first, then turned his head to look at Margo. Was she dreaming?

In a sensual, lithe movement, she arched her neck a little.

Fascinated, alert, Dash went up on his elbow to better see her.

She made a soft sound, and her lips parted.

“Margo?”

She shifted, gave another throaty moan....

A knock sounded on her front door.

Damning the interruption and determined not to wake her, Dash moved silently from her bed and out of her bedroom. He quietly closed the door behind him. Whatever Margo was dreaming, she’d have to continue on without his absorbed attention until he got rid of her company.

* * *

A BIG, ROUGH HAND touched her face, her ear, down her throat and to her shoulder. “Wake up, honey.”

No, she didn’t want to leave the dream. But even as she fought it, the sensation of Dash’s mouth on her belly, her thighs, began to recede. She tried to hold on, and whispered, “Please.” She needed a conclusion.

She needed release.