Page 73 of Toxic Temptation
All on its own, an imaginary slideshow starts playing in my head.Kovan escorting a leggy, high-society brunette down a red carpet. Kovan pouring champagne for a buxom blonde on the prow of a yacht. Kovan, shirtless, pants pooled around his ankles, as a freckled redhead without a stitch of clothing sinks to her knees before him and?—
I shudder until the images go away. So what? Who cares if he’s had countless women? So many he probably can’t remember their names? It’s not my problem, is it?
But it is. Because it should turn me off, but it doesn’t. I try to talk myself into despising it, into being repulsed by him and all the things I can all too easily picture him doing. I mean, who wants second-hand or third-hand or thousandth-hand goods? Who wants something that’s already been pawed over by every trust fund baby and Victoria’s Secret supermodel from here to Paris Fashion Week and back again?
I do, apparently.
I want it a lot.
Like he can see into my filthy thoughts, Kovan grins.
“Yeah, yeah. You’re Casanova and we’re all just lucky to be in sniffing range of your pheromones.” I roll my eyes. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
He hasn’t moved. Still standing across from my bed, dwarfing the room, reminding me with every breath how much bigger he is. If he decides to ignore me and take the empty side, I’m not sure what exactly I can do about it. And with the current state of my feverish body, the way even my scrubs sliding over my skin feels naughty, I’d really rather not touch him at all.
“Do you usually sleep fully clothed?” he asks.
I blink at him. “Huh?”
He glances at my scrubs. “Your outfit. It doesn’t seem comfortable. Nor particularly sanitary.”
“Don’t worry about what I sleep in,” I snap back. “Just get comfortable in that armchair and be quiet. I’m exhausted, I’ve had a terrible day, and I don’t need someone talking my ear off. Especially not someone like you.”
“Whatever you want,honey.” The endearment sounds decadently wrong on his lips, even when it’s layered thick with that much sarcasm. “Bedtime it is.”
Without warning, he pulls his shirt over his head, and I find myself staring at the most defined abs I’ve ever seen.
Dear God, give me strength.
Those muscles have my heart racing so fast it might implode. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Going to sleep. Just like you told me to.” He tosses the shirt onto the back of the armchair. “Out of respect for your boundaries, I won’t sleep naked like usual.”
That should sound good, but my heart slows to a wan, disappointed drumbeat instead. “How generous of you.”
He turns his back and pulls off his pants. I get a perfect, unrequested view of his ass clad in black boxer briefs.
Charity always babbles about how much she appreciates a good, firm ass on a man. I never saw the appeal. I ought to text her and tell her I’ve now seen the error of my ways. Thederrièrror,if you will.
God, I might be very dangerously exhausted if I’m making bad puns in French. I ought to go to bed now, before my mental capacity declines any further.
“Stop checking me out and go to sleep, Doctor.”
Spinning furiously and shamefully in place, I snatch a fresh towel and flee to the bathroom. Luka is already fast asleep on the sofa bed. He looks younger when he sleeps, when those gray eyes aren’t soaking up all the nooks and crannies of a world that showed its ugly side to him far too soon.
I lock myself in the bathroom and try to calm down with a cold shower.
Despite my exhaustion, I don’t feel sleepy. No prizes for guessing why. No prizes for guessing why I stay in the shower until my fingers prune, either. But no matter how long I stay, whether the water is hot or cold or on or off, nothing dispels the stubborn heat surging just underneath the surface of my skin. Every droplet is a caress I don’t want and never asked for.
I pause when I finally concede defeat and step out of the shower. The question is…Now, what?
Usually, I sleep in an oversized t-shirt and nothing else. But with my uninvited roommate, I opt instead for the navy silk pajama set Charity bought me last year. Shorts and a matching camisole with a daring V-neck.
It’s not so sexy I’ll feel exposed, but just sexy enough to give Kovan a taste of his own medicine.
I’ll see your abs and raise you cleavage and thigh, you smug S.O.B.
After brushing my hair with a comb I haven’t touched in weeks, I return to the bedroom. Kovan is sprawled on the armchair, legs propped against the windowsill, abs on less-than-innocent display. But I recognize them for the weapons they are.
