lounged on his balcony and worked on his man tan for the remainder of the day.
He’s sure to wrinkle prematurely or get skin cancer.
I paced our condo for hours in pure frustration, which has seemed to soar higher than the cloudless, tropical blue sky. I’m exasperated with every-bloody-thing at the moment. Randolph’s lack of talk, his lack of electronic activity, and his basic lack of cleanliness, if I must be honest. I’m not sure the man has washed his hands since his lady of the night came and went, nor after any of the times the loo has flushed in the last twenty-four hours.
I shook the man’s hand at the fundraiser. The thought has me wanting to jump into a pool of bleach and swim laps for hours. The germs on that man right now have to be toxic.
And Cole woke me with his hand on my breast and his erection pressed to my bum. I was equally irritated at myself for wanting him to slide that hand between my legs where he would have found me positively drenched. Last night on the beach, I had a moment of weakness and admitted things aloud that I’ve only permitted myself to think while alone in the dark of night. As if it wasn’t hard enough to steel myself against his graces, I don’t need my sensitive nipples or antsy uterus betraying me.
I have shit to fix before I can think of any of that.
And damn, Cole. He’s more relaxed than a beach bum—shoulders to the headboard and legs crossed at the ankles while wearing only a pair of tatty gym shorts. Everything is on display from his bare chest down to his large feet, and in between is the bulge in his shorts reminding me of how we wake every single morning.
I know him like a second skin. He’s commando under those shorts—I’d bet my life on it. He always was after a shower when it was just us. I’m sure that hasn’t changed since nothing else has, either.
He hasn’t taken his eyes off me—back and forth, back and forth—wearing a path on the rug in front of the king-size bed where his taunting biceps are bulging as he casually lounges with his arms crossed.
I’m not sure if my starlit confession about my being tired lifted the anvil off my chest or what, but in addition to waking frustrated as hell, I also opened my eyes this morning invigorated with energy seeping from my pores. The need to move my body is overwhelming. It’s as though my two surgeries are from another lifetime. If it weren’t for the burning desire to listen to what Randolph might utter next, I’d definitely be walking on the beach, or maybe a run if I could manage.
My pacing is interrupted by a snap.
Literally Cole snapping his fingers, breaking my nervous energy in two.
I stop in front of the bed by his bare feet. “What?”
He points to the earbud he’s listening to. “He called for a taxi.”
“Please tell me he washed his hands.”
Cole only winces and shakes his head.
“He said nothing else?” I press.
“Nope. But we knew this might be it.” Cole looks at his watch. “He has a flight back to Washington in three hours.”
My head falls back and I stare at the ceiling fan, spinning and spinning and spinning—racing itself yet going nowhere.
An ugly metaphor for my miserable life.
“We still have his line tapped. Asa will let us know what comes next,” he assures me. “And, baby, there will be a next. He put a hit on a journalist’s life last night and failed to upgrade the deal he’s been doing under the table for years. Life is not grand for the shady Senator from Florida. He’s juggling fire right now and the man has no coordination.”
“Maybe he’ll contract hepatitis from his lack of hygiene,” I mutter and pace to the balcony windows where I plant my hands on my hips.
“Maybe.” I hear a smile in Cole’s tone as the bed creaks.
I turn to find him up, moving to our bags that have exploded all over the floor. He and I were never tidy when we traveled. No point in settling in when we might have to be on the go at a moment’s notice.
He produces a pair of clean boxers and before I know it, drops the gym shorts, standing buck naked.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
His lips tip on one side. “Don’t look at me like that. You’ll make me hard. And