wall on her left. The cozy little breakfast table and chairs and the floor-to-ceiling vertical blind that let through the faintest of sunlight and invariably hid a sliding glass door to a deck or balcony on her right.
The half-naked man leaning casually against the bedroom’s doorframe as he eyed her in a way that was anything but casual.
His gaze lifted from where the sheets and covers pooled at Claire’s waist. Sliding his attention upward, he did the kind of slow-burn examination of her breasts that left the full mounds tingling and her feeling naked despite her shorty PJ set.
Bringing his gaze the rest of the way up, he stepped inside the bedroom. “How you feeling?”
Like screaming, crying, and puking. “Pissed.”
A small smile quirked his lips. “Can’t say that I blame you.”
What about aroused, could he blame her for feeling aroused?
She wasn’t dripping-wet-with-desire aroused, but her body was definitely aware it was within ten feet of a member of the opposite sex for the first time in months. A member of the opposite sex with the kind of raspy voice that made her panties want to instantly evaporate. That he was dressed only in faded jeans that rode dangerously low on his lean hips and not exactly what you would call hard to look at didn’t help the desire.
With disheveled dark blond hair, nearly translucent blue eyes, and a body sculpted with just the right amount of muscle guaranteed to feel good rocking against hers without feeling bad, he had that rough-around-the-edges thing working well in his favor.
And she had that far-too-long-horny thing working well against her better judgment.
Pretending like her pulse wasn’t racing for all the wrong reasons, Claire scooted back against what was presumably his headboard. The room had certain elements, like the spray of pink dogwoods in a vase on the dresser, that reminded her of a woman’s touch, but the wildlife scene depicted on the green comforter and framed pictures of the same on the wall shouted masculine. “Is this your place?”
His smile deepened with the heat of sensuality. “My bed, yeah.”
Her nipples pinged to life with how intimate his smile made this situation feel. How intimate was it? Had he had her naked last night? Had he done all sorts of wickedly carnal things with her body? Did she care if he had?
Hell, yeah, she cared. If not because it was the logical thing to do, then because she wasn’t having her first post-incident man-supplied orgasm when she was too doped up to remember.
Claire winced with the memory the thought triggered. She couldn’t recall being stuck with a needle or having a pill forced down her throat. Something had obviously been done to her last night though, to render both her body and voice all but useless.
His smile vanished. “Head hurt?”
“I’m fine.” Truthfully, the verdict was still out, but she couldn’t exactly rail into him for doing the job Erin had paid him to do.
“Want to take a walk along the beach?”
Instantly tense, she hugged her arms around her chest. “God, no!”
“The wind’s a little brisk, but nothing we can’t handle.”
Wind? Was he nuts to think that wind was the problem, or just not in the know? “Do you know why I’m here?”
“Yeah.” He sobered. “And I also know you’re not fine.” Moving to the dresser, he pulled out one of the top drawers to reveal bras and panties in an array of vibrant colors. “The left-side drawers are yours. Breakfast is ready, so get over the whole pissed thing, accept that you’re here for a reason, and join me in the kitchen.” With a last glance in her direction, he left the room, closing the door behind him.
Claire hurried out of bed and yanked a coral bra and matching boy-cut underwear out of the dresser. There was no telling how long he would stay away. If he hadn’t seen her naked already, she wasn’t going to give him that opportunity. Not when the uneven pitch of her breathing and the swollen state of her nipples suggested two things.
One, she wasn’t exactly as pissed as she let on, or probably should be. And two, if he caught her in the buff and liked what he saw, she was liable to let her deprived pussy do the driving.
After grabbing a pair of jeans and a black sweater from the second drawer—at least Erin had the good sense to pack for comfort—she moved into the attached bathroom. A visual search while she dressed found her toothbrush and lotion on the sink basin and a makeup bag of odds and ends on the toilet tank. A more thorough check of the medicine cabinet revealed her deodorant and a box of tampons. He might not fit her imagined profile of a psychologist—between his buff body and not looking much older than her twenty-seven—but the guy was obviously a professional not to rebel against having her female products invading his personal space.
That he was a pro and, therefore, not any too likely to really force her on a walk down the beach, eased her nerves as she brushed her teeth and hair. Feeling almost calm, she returned to the bedroom and ventured out the door into the connected sitting area. A chocolate brown couch and recliner, with throw pillows sporting wildlife scenes similar to those in the bedroom, angled toward a wall housing a flat screen TV. On the far side of the room, beige carpet turned to the wood flooring of a kitchen. Past a short, two-stool bar, he stood with his back to her, doing something she couldn’t distinguish.
Claire could see his backside just fine though, and the teasing flash of navy underwear—boxers she was guessing all the way—past the low-slung waist of his jeans. The divine way the worn cotton of his jeans molded to his butt cheeks reminded her again just how long it had been since she copped herself a feel of nice, firm man ass.
She started over to the kitchen and, oh, the view just got better and better. Her fingers flexed and her sex gave a decadent flutter she hadn’t experienced in ages.
Seriously, no quack had a right to a back that broad and scrumptious looking.
Noting the two glasses of orange juice at the bar, she slid onto one of the stools and took a long drink. Whether it was the effect of all that gorgeous maleness on display, or a side effect of whatever she’d been given last night, she was seriously parched.
Setting the glass down, she observed, “You don’t look like a shrink.”
“I’m not.” He turned around with a heaping plate of omelet and hash browns in either hand, which made for an excellent frame for his pecs.
He wasn’t liable to have a shirtless tan in May and she couldn’t see him fake baking. The golden brown cast to his skin was an au natural stunning contrast to the dark blond hair dusting his chest and arms and the morning stubble scruffing up his jawline.
Coming around to her side of the bar, he set the plates down and slid onto the stool next to her. His body was close enough she could feel the heat radiating off it. See the delicious play of his muscles as he reached for his glass and brought it to his lips. Appreciate the hell out of his strong, sexy profile as he took a drink of juice.
The tantalizing scents of garlic and butter wafted up, splintering her thoughts, and her stomach gave a low rumble. Apparently, she was hungry for more than just a good, long screw.
“So what, you’re the prep guy?” Lifting the fork from her plate, she cut into the omelet. A mouthwatering melody of cheese-covered sausage and veggies oozed out. “You see that I’m well rested and fed for when the shrink arrives?”
“There’s no shrink on Ecstasy Island. I’m the only one responsible for curing you and my knowledge is about as far as you can get from a six-figure degree.”
She chewed a bite of omelet as she considered the words. Knowing he wasn’t going to make her feel welcome just to hand her off to some textbook quack definitely added to her comfort level. As for their location…When he’d mentioned the ocean, she’d assumed he’d taken her somewhere near her waterfront apartment. Really, it didn’t matter. Two miles down the road