I could see was her plaid blanket, but it was moving up and down with her measured breathing. The clinic staff was all taking turns looking after her, and last night had been my shift. Luckily, no one cared if you were buzzed while babysitting, as long as your charge was a raccoon.
Someone had seen fit to raise her and then abandon her in a dumpster, where she’d been trapped for days. She’d needed fluids and food and a lot of care, and then I had to figure out what to do with a raccoon who was way too acclimated to people and not fit for the wild.
I rolled over on my back with a groan and stared up at the ceiling. The list of things you had to do as a fully functioning adult had never seemed less appealing. On that list was getting out of bed, putting on clothes, and trying to interact with people. I mentally checked the list again, but I couldn’t find “rolling over and going back to sleep.”
I convinced myself to get out of bed, keeping the whimpers to a minimum, and floated myself a few lies to get moving.
Lie #1: You’ll feel better after you shower.
I did not. Less bleary-eyed and wet, certainly, but not better.
Lie #2: You’ll feel more with it after you get dressed.
I did not, but at least I didn’t have to worry about what to wear. I put on my blue scrubs and a comfortable pair of white sneakers. Then I tamed my hair and put in my contacts. A couple of blinks made me realize that my eyes were not in the mood, so I switched to glasses.
Lie #3: You’ll feel heaps better after you get something in your stomach.
That helpful bit of advice sent me right to the garbage can, where my stomach and throat worked together to eject my muffin and juice with little ado. Afterward, I stood in front of the sink, brushing my teeth grimly. Like I’d said, it was gonna be one of those days.
Even after I finished getting ready, there was still no sign of Kona. I glanced at my watch. I needed to get her started on her routine, so we could get going. And if she could appear magically in the hallway right about now, that would be great.
No such luck.
I scratched the back of my neck, looking at the partially cracked door to the guest room. I knew exactly where she was, and I felt strange about going in there when he was sleeping. Although, it was my house… even if, for the moment, that room was his domain.
I sighed and pushed on the door, widening the crack before sticking my face through the opening. Of course, because he lived to fucking torture me, Journey was not under the covers like a decent human being. Instead, he was sleeping on top, his face buried in the pillows, giving me an unfettered view of his body. Why wouldn’t I want to start my morning with a visual of the body I no longer had the right to touch?
I knew every bit of him, from his mess of sandy blond hair to the freckles on his sun-kissed shoulders to the toes on his long, slender feet. Every fucking inch had seen my hands or my mouth or my dick… some important areas had seen a combination of all three.
He was a little more muscled than I remembered. Even though he was relaxed, I could still see the strength and definition in his back. The tattoo was new, too. It was of a small bird midflight on the right side of his back, just above his ass… that firm, round ass, which was barely covered in his navy-and-white striped underwear.
If you could call them underwear. He didn’t even have the common decency to wear real fucking pajamas. I huffed. I mean, what the hell were those, anyway? Boy shorts? Why would someone wear such a thing? Probably to make some poor loser stare desperately at your ass.
I stared desperately at that ass.
I wanted to touch. I wanted to do more than touch. And since none of that would be happening, I put my googly eyes right back in my head. I was not a creepy pervert, and I would not linger in the doorway ogling Journey’s ass. Nor would I think about it later when I was in the shower beating off to the memory. Okay, so I was a pervert and