“We’re going to pick up the pizza Gray called in. Just down the street.” Reed angled with his chin. “Emory worked today, her third in a row in the ER, so she’s in the shower.” He leaned in. “I have a feeling Gray’s in there with her.”
I felt my cheeks heat again. I wasn’t a prude, but I hadn’t really thought of my neighbor getting it on with her fiancé before. That set me in motion, so I followed him down the three flights of stairs. My legs were a little rubbery from my run, and I grabbed the railing, so I didn’t fall on my face.
“Wednesday’s are her no-cook day,” he said. “Kind of like Taco Tuesday.”
He stopped at the bottom, held the door open to the lobby for me.
“I never had Taco Tuesday growing up,” I admitted, walking past. Yeah, it was more like eat-what-the-cook-served kind of thing in my house. We never ate together; my parents were always at some kind of fundraiser or dinner at the country club, my brother in his room playing a video game. And tacos? My mother would never eat food with her hands or anything she considered ethnic.
“Me either.”
Reed started to push open the door to the parking lot then stopped. He shrugged out of his coat. “Here. It’s cold out.”
I stared at the jacket for a moment. It was cold out, and I had no idea how far “just down the street” meant. I hadn’t grabbed a coat because I’d had no idea I would be leaving the building.
“Thanks,” I murmured, pulling it on. It was big on me, proving Reed was not a small man, that he was so much larger than me. The sleeves hung down past my hands, and he reached down, grabbed the cuff and rolled it up. Did the same for the other side.
With the scent of him surrounding me—kind of a mixture of dark woods and soap, and the way he was taking care of me—made my heart stutter. God, he was sweet. And dangerous. No, he wouldn’t hurt me, I was sure of that now, but I could fall for him. That was bad. Falling for someone meant letting them in, and letting them in meant only heartache. People left or did something stupid like sell me to drug dealers.
Yet I savored his attention, his remarkably gentle actions for one who considered himself bad to the core. I took a deep breath, let it out. He was just rolling up coat sleeves, not slaying a dragon.
I glanced up through my lashes, saw his intent gaze, watched it lower to my mouth. What was it about him? We’d been in each other’s presence for less than two minutes—when I wasn’t having a panic attack—and somehow, it was as if he could see into my soul. I imagined what it felt like to be opposite him in the ring, with all that focus squarely on his opponent. My heart stuttered, and I forgot to breathe. This man was dangerous to me. To my safely guarded emotions.
Sex was easy for me. Something to do with a guy for a release. Quick with an easy orgasm to clear my mind and to feel something. For a few minutes, I wasn’t numb, and my mind went blissfully silent. There was no sleeping over at their place. Definitely not at mine. When it came to sex, I was the guy. Wham, bam, thank you, sir. I didn’t even mind a janitor’s closet to get the deed done. I preferred it that way, somewhere only the most important bits were uncovered long enough to fuck. The release was all I looked for. No strings. No connections. But Reed?
Even after having a panic attack because of him, I felt a connection, which was insane. And chemistry? God, the man oozed testosterone, and I wanted him. There was no doubt he’d be good. He’d know just how to make me come hard. My pussy clenched at the thought. But he was complicated, and I didn’t need that.
“Thanks,” I murmured then turned to the door, breaking the spell.
The air was cold, that sharp snap of winter making me stuff my hands into the pockets. There was no snow, and we hadn’t seen more than a dusting of the white stuff this year. It didn’t seem like it would be a white Christmas although there was still time for things to change.
We walked in silence down the sidewalk. Reed stood on the street side, and I noticed he kept his pace slow to match my shorter legs. I wasn’t tiny at five-eight, but still.
“I heard you’re a professor,” he commented. “Impressive.”
I glanced up at him, but he looked forward, almost scanning the block.
“Impressive?”
A couple came out of a restaurant, and I stepped out of their way. Reed put his hand at my back, and I felt it through the soft layer of his coat as he guided me around them.
“I teach Art History and have been told it’s really dry. Stuffy.”
“You don’t seem the stuffy type,” he countered without delay, as if he hadn’t taken time to consider.
“Oh?” I couldn’t help but smile. “What’s the stuffy type look like?”
I saw the corner of his mouth tip up. “Tweed jackets with arm patches. Old.”
“That’s more my English counterparts than me.”
“You like to run.” He switched topics as we stopped at an intersection, waited for the light to change. The wind kicked up when a car sped by.
“I do. Good exercise.” And stress relief.
“I run as part of my training,” he said, glancing down at me. “But I hate it. I do it for the endurance and only three miles at a time.”
“But then you do other things… as part of your workout. I mean, it takes a lot to win those matches.”