pair of pale pink panties, it hit him square in the gut.
No. Actually it was lower and all he wanted to do was close the distance between them and go to his knees. Beg her to see what was right in front of her . . . who was right in front of her.
He wanted to press his lips to the soft swell of her belly. Along the lush curves of her hips. He wanted to palm those amazing round breasts in his hands and taste her . . . see just what color her nipples where. He’d caught a glimpse of the dark shadows through the top she’d been wearing, but what color were they? Pink? A soft, warm rose brown?
“Man, you’ve got to stop this or you’ll end up crippling yourself.”
He could still hear the water.
And it was so very, very easy to imagine himself climbing those stairs. Stripping his clothes away and joining her.
“Ow!” Hot grease splattered his hand and he jerked back as the small flame flared. Jerking his head back on track, he went to grab a small hand towel and caught the handle of the skillet.
“Fuck!”
* * *
With her back leaning against the warm, smooth walls of her shower, Abigale closed her eyes. Her breath came in harsh, broken little pants as the showerhead pulsed and warm water beat against her.
In her mind, she was back in that dream.
That heady, erotic dream.
Bringing herself to climax had become habit, but it had never been so painfully necessary until now and she was all but ready to cry. Her muscles tightened, locking up on her as she started to rock her hips, desperately empty inside.
The heat of the water pounding against her clit felt so damned good, but it wasn’t enough . . .
“Zach . . .”
Focusing on his face, she imagined he was there. Coming to her through the cloud of steam and heat. Stepping between her thighs. Or maybe kneeling . . .
And just that thought did it. Pushed her right over the edge.
With a sob, she climaxed, biting her lip so the man downstairs wouldn’t hear her as she cried out.
* * *
A few minutes later, a little embarrassed but feeling more relaxed, she tugged her robe back on and stood in front of the mirror drying her hair.
A muffled shout came from downstairs and she paused, then frowned.
Reaching for the doorknob, she cocked her head.
Then Zach’s pained shout echoed through the house and she took off running.
Stumbling to a halt in the doorway of her bright, open kitchen, she stared. She didn’t see any blood. There was a big butcher knife on the island, so no blood was a good sign. There was a skillet on the stove, smoking—too hot. Grimacing, she headed over to it and then saw the mess. The island had been blocking it.
Bacon and grease splattered all over the floor . . . and Zach was at the sink with the water running. Groaning, she turned off the stove and then edged around the mess.
“Let me see your hand.”
He shot her a dark look. “I got it.”
“Zach, let me see your hand right now, or I’m going to call your damned mother,” she warned.
He curled his lip at her. “That’s such teenaged shit, Abs.”
“And it works.” She reached for his forearm—everything looked fine there and he didn’t seem to be trying to get it under the water, so she figured it was safe. “Come on, Zach. Let me look,” she said, softer this time.
Leaning in, she sighed as she saw the leather bracelet he had on. “You’re probably ruining that,” she said quietly, gently unsnapping it. It was harder to make out anything on his wrist and lower forearm, thanks to the vibrant colors of his tattoos, but the back of his hand, spreading down across his fingers was a vibrant, angry red. “You burned it good.”
“That’s why I’m putting it under cold water,” he said, his voice grouchy.
She shot a glance up at him, smiling a little. “Cranky.”
“It hurts,” he snapped.
“Yeah, I bet it does.” She put the stopper in the sink and filled it up, getting the water as cold as it would go.
“I was going to ice it—”
“No. Ice is bad for burns. Can affect circulation.” She guided his hand back into the water and held it there as the water started to fill up, slowly rising over his wrist and forearm. Once it was up a few inches over the burned areas, she shut