“I’m familiar with it. I’m pretty sure I can take you.”
“Take me?” Lucy’s stance seemed to turn instantly rock hard and immovable, a promised threat emanating from her, though she hadn’t moved. “I seem to recall you ending up on the ground under me the last time you tried.” After a split second’s pause, her skin grew flushed. With anger, presumably. But he was getting a weird vibe.
“I wasn’t actually challenging you to a fight.”
“You just said you could take me.”
“You brought up your Systema skills. Which seems pretty strange, because all I suggested was that you let me look at the stitches and see how you’re healing. Is there some reason those are fighting words to you?”
Lucy let out a slow, deliberate breath, as if trying to breathe out her own anger—a gesture he was familiar with. “No, I suppose not.” They stared each other down for another few seconds before Lucy unexpectedly crossed her arms in front of her waist, grabbed the hem of her shirt and whipped it up and over her head. She turned her bandaged shoulder toward him. “Well? Take a look. I haven’t got all day.”
Oliver stepped closer and peeled back the edge of the bandage. The skin was healthy looking. No redness or swelling. Little bruising. And soft. Really soft.
He drew back his hand with a jolt as though he’d touched a hot stove. “You’re right. It looks good. Glad to see it.”
She turned to face him, the T-shirt still balled in her fist. “Now let’s see yours.”
“Mine?” Oliver had to check himself from reflexively covering his crotch.
“You have some interesting scars. They looked fresh.”
“Scars?” Oliver tried to keep his voice even, his expression believably puzzled.
“On your chest. From bullet wounds.”
“Bullet wounds?” If he pulled this off, he deserved an Oscar. “I think your sleep deprivation may have gotten the better of you last night. It’s understandable if you were a little confused.”
“Was I?” Lucy’s fists went to her hips. “Then take your shirt off and let’s see.”
“This is silly.”
“It’s a little weird that you won’t just do it if I’m being silly.”
Oliver blinked at her. “Maybe you should just put yours back on.”
Lucy swore and yanked the shirt over her head, shoving her arms into the sleeves with two sharp jerks. “Quit stalling and take your shirt off, Oliver. Or I’m going to assume my suspicions are correct.”
“And what suspicions would those be?”
“That you’re something I should be hunting.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” His temper threatened to spike. He hadn’t meditated yet today. Oliver pulled off his T-shirt and held his arms out at his sides. “Satisfied? No bullet wounds.” He tried to keep his breathing steady as she stepped toward him, her nose scrunching with disbelief.
Lucy’s fingers settled lightly on the pale thin line beneath his bottom right rib, and Oliver drew in his breath sharply. “What is this?”
“A scar from an accident I had a while back. If you think that’s from a bullet wound, you need your eyes examined.”
She glanced back up at his chest. She hadn’t moved her hand except to relax it against his side. “I was sure I saw them.” Lucy shook her head. “Maybe it really was sleep deprivation.” She raised her eyes and met his gaze, her thumb stroking absently along the scar.
Oliver looked down at her hand. “What are you doing?” He’d meant for it to sound slightly accusatory, disapproving, a little annoyed. It came out sounding rough and low and hopeful.
“I don’t know.”
Her thumb was still tracing the scar, and he grabbed her hand. “Well, stop.” He moved her hand away from him, which seemed to take a monumental effort. But he hadn’t let go of it. It was like her skin was a magnet.
“I don’t like you.” Lucy’s voice was equally throaty. “You’re pompous and...” She seemed to be grasping for adjectives. “Full of yourself.”
“Those are the same thing.”
“See?”
She’d surprised a smile out of him. “I don’t like you, either.” His delivery was utterly unconvincing.
“Then let go of my hand.”
He was barely holding it. “You let go.” She didn’t.
Whatever was happening here was a bad idea. His rational mind knew it. He didn’t do romantic involvement. Or sexual. He should have meditated this morning. He should let go of her hand and put his shirt back on.
He put his other hand on her waist. No. No, that is the opposite of letting go. Definitely do not kiss h—
Oliver swore silently at himself as their lips came together.
Lucy switched off her brain and let the hormones take over. Oliver was swearing softly against her lips, and she didn’t think he was aware of it. It was sexy as hell. As if by silent, mutual agreement, their clasped hands released at the same moment—two seconds too late—and Oliver cupped her face in his hands and deepened the kiss as Lucy put her hands on his chest and stroked the hard terrain, moaning appreciatively.
When her hands moved down over his abs and traced the V of his obliques, Oliver let go of her mouth and cradled the backs of her thighs to lift her off the floor so that she had to wrap her legs around him, hooked behind his ass, and walked her swiftly backward to drop her into a plush, roomy armchair next to a pile of books.
Lucy unbuttoned his jeans while Oliver lifted her shirt from the back. He tugged it over her head as she finished unbuttoning him, and she let go for a second so he could draw the shirt away. His erection pushed against the briefs exposed at his fly, and Lucy tugged down the shorts and freed him while he unhooked her bra.
Oliver groaned as she encircled his cock in her hand, warm and hard like an eminently satisfying stick shift, and stroked upward, letting the bra strap slip off her other arm before trading hands to remove the other and toss the bra aside. She brought her right hand beneath the left. He was easily a two-fister. He swore a little again as he unfastened her jeans and tugged them down. Lucy lifted her butt to let him take them off, kicking off her sneakers, and wrapped her legs beneath his ass once more, using them to jerk him toward her.
Oliver pulled her hands away, locking his fingers in hers, and held her arms against the back of the chair as he dipped in to kiss her once more. The slick heat of his mouth and his tongue made her want to taste his cock.
“Stand up,” she murmured against his lips, letting her legs drop.
Oliver paused. “What?”
“Just stand up straight for a minute.” She wriggled forward on the seat, and he must have thought she was just trying to get more comfortable because the little strangled yelp as she swallowed him was more surprise than pleasure. But his soft grunts and groans—along with more delightfully muttered expletives—quickly turned into the latter as he gripped the arms of the chair. God, she needed him inside her. She needed to hear those little bursts of sound at her ear as he burst inside her.
Lucy released him and pulled Oliver down toward the chair, wrapping her arms around his neck and putting her mouth to his ear. “Do you have a condom?”
Oliver blanched. “Oh, shit. I don’t... I don’t think so.” What kind of guy didn’t