No Interest in Love

  I want to be her chaos.

  We’re standing now, and I’m not sure how we got that way. But she lets go of my hand and my skin feels way too hot for someone who just got covered in ice.

  “Do you know what it is?”

  I blink. Shake my head. Kick the ice on the floor toward the drain.

  “Sasquatch,” I answer.

  “Joking is your go-to, isn’t it?”

  “Sasquatch is no joke.”

  Her barely there smile makes an appearance. “Well, when it stops, get back to your room.”

  She peeks out the glass at the door, eyes searching the parking lot. Wait…

  “Did you come out here to get me?” I smirk, crossing my arms. “I’m no damsel in distress.”

  “Oh yes, because you looked so ready to win a fight.” She nods to the floor where my bucket is.

  “Hey, I do my own stunts.”

  She covers her small laugh with a cough. “I was protecting my investment.” Her head swivels toward a shadow that crosses the lot. She wraps a tight hand on the doorknob and pulls it toward her. I know I underestimated her strength before, but if Sasquatch comes knocking, he’s probably going to whip that door open like it was made of feathers, regardless of how hard she’s trying to keep it closed.

  I walk up behind her, yelling at myself to keep my distance so my head stays on straight. Every time I touch the woman my brain seems to jump out of my skull. So I stay a breath away, close enough to look out the window with her, but we’re not even grazing each other.

  Man, I’m overanalyzing everything. Maybe my brain’s already gone.

  “I think it’s over there,” she says, her breath fogging up the glass slightly as she points to the right of the parking lot. “The shadow looked like a wolf or something.”

  “Werewolf,” I whisper, and when I look down her lips are pressed together in amusement. “What?”

  “You a believer in the supernatural?”

  “Hell, yeah.” I point at the scratch marks near the ice machine. “That would be your classic James ‘Logan’ Howlett.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “You believe in superheroes too?”

  My damn heart skips a beat. “You know who that is?”

  “Every Wolverine fan knows who that is.”

  She winks. I smile because I can’t help myself. Something zaps between our bodies, and she steps away from the door, ducking under my arm, which I hadn’t realized was resting over her head. She leans her butt against the freezer, crossing her arms and tapping a stray piece of ice with her toe. She’s not wearing shoes.

  She’s also not wearing my clothes anymore. From her shoulders to mid thigh is the T-shirt she bought in the lobby that says MISSOURI LOVES COMPANY, and from waist to just above the knee is a pair of boxers. Her normally pushed-back-with-a-pen hair is down, damp, like she got out of the shower maybe an hour ago.

  I’m conceding.

  She.

  Is.

  Adorable.

  Beyond that word. It’s so far beyond adorable and sexy and cute and hot and any other word used to describe an attractive woman. I have never in my life wanted something so bad and not wanted it at the same time. I feel like my chest is being ripped apart in a thousand directions and sewn back together in a way I’ve never felt before. Like my heart is finding its way back from my high school to my chest, and I want to shake my head, tear at my hair, get my mind back to where it belongs with the Stinson Approach, but for the life of me I can’t remember why I’d ever want to bang and bail with any woman, but especially one who makes me feel like this.

  It makes me wonder if I ever gave any of the women I did sleep with a chance to make me feel like this.

  “Stop staring at me,” she says with a tiny laugh, then she fixes her wet hair. “I’m already freaked out enough.”

  “I have a tattoo,” I blurt, not knowing where the hell it comes from.

  “I know.” She’s tilting her head toward me, eyes flicking to the door, when we hear another screeching howl. “You put it on your résumé.”

  “That’s right.” That’s one of the requirements for some jobs in acting. They want to know every bump, bruise, scar, abnormality…“You know about the piercings, too, then.”

  “The ones that closed up?” she says with an arrogant tilt of her eyebrow. I laugh because she’s right; the bars I had through my nipples weren’t the most comfortable things while shooting action scenes in a bulletproof vest. The holes closed last year.

  “You’ve never seen it.” I shove off from the door and rest against the ice machine with her. Her eyes follow me and I swear to the Almighty her breath catches.

  “Um…the piercings?”

  “The tattoo.”

  “I don’t normally ask men to take their shirts off for me.”

  “I don’t have to take it off.” I lift the side of my gray tee so she can see the Wolverine tat along my rib. She breaks her closed-off stance, uncrossing her arms and turning a little to face me. Her thumbnail grazes my skin as she grabs the material bunched by my pit and holds it up to get a better look.

  “That’s…Wow,” she says, and I laugh a little bit, realizing I’ve been sucking in and flexing this whole time. “Original costume too.”

  “Has to be the original,” I say with a smirk. I go to pull my shirt back down, but her finger drops onto my skin, tracing the ink, causing Wolverine to pucker up with sudden goose bumps.

  “You have a great tattoo artist.”

  “I’m pretty sure that was a compliment,” I tease. She rolls her eyes up to meet mine.

  “Yes…for your tattoo artist.” She shoves my shirt down and bites at her bottom lip. She’s trying not to smile again. “The first tattoo I got was so horrible I had to get a cover-up.”

  “You have a tattoo?”

  She nods, tucking her hair behind her ear. Whatever animal that’s out there is still howling, and it sounds like it has friends now. We could probably leave, but neither one of us moves toward the door.

  “It’s actually in the same place.” She kinks her neck to her side. “Well, almost. My left side, your right.”

  “Ribs kill, right?”

  “Did you cry in the chair?” she asks through a gorgeous smile.

  “It was a very manly cry.” It wasn’t. “You?” I picture her losing it last night, and great, my slowly awakening heart feels sad for her…which makes me wish I had the guts to take her hand or something. But she shakes her head, and now I wish I’d remember that I am twenty-five years old and I shouldn’t be overthinking every single simple answer and movement I’m making with this woman who I’ve known for seven years.

  “Of course not. I took it like a man.” She sits up proudly, and it’s the damned cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

  “So you cursed a lot.”

  Her body shakes in silent amusement. “A lot.” Her eyes break our connection. I breathe out, not realizing I was holding it in. “Especially the second time around.”

  She grabs the bottom of her souvenir shirt from the back, and the fabric gets stuck and twisted—just like the air I’m breathing—on its way up.

  “You’re taking off your shirt,” I mumble like an idiot.

  “Well, you’ve already seen my ass.”

  Her ass isn’t her boobs. I’m about to say that, but she keeps pulling the material and I tell my tongue to shut the hell up. Her pale skin is revealed centimeters at a time, and I want to reach out to help her, but I’m afraid one movement from me will frighten her away, so I stay stone still, watching and sweating and trying to get whatever has lodged itself in my esophagus out of there.

  She ends up tugging the bottom of the back of her shirt over her head, like I used to do when I was a kid when my grandma rubbed my back, and then holds her arm out of the way so I can see her ink displayed all along her left ribs.

  “Holy shit,” I say, ungluing from my frozen state, inching closer to get a better look. She’s got one of those 3-D tats. Three Wolverine c
law marks run over her ribs, and inside of them are the X-Men characters—all in original costumes—showing off their powers in an attempt to escape. It’s badass. Not girly in the slightest, which honestly, I’d never expect from her anyway.

  “And I thought I was a fan,” I say, tilting my head a bit to get a better look at the Phoenix and her incredibly realistic 3-D breasts.

  “Yeah…it looks way better now than it did before.” She sort of chuckles to herself, but it’s off. Shaky. Nervous. The air snaps like a stretched rubber band. And since I’m already not thinking straight, I reach out and touch the bottom edge of the tattoo, running my thumb over her chilled skin.

  “How long did it take?”

  “Three two-hour sessions.”

  Ouch. “And no tears?”

  “Well, I did bite a hole into the stuffed bear I was holding.”

  The corner of my mouth picks up. “You had a teddy bear with you?”

  “He suffered a very painful death.”

  “His sacrifice is appreciated.” I shake my head at her ink. “Gotta say…I’m a bit jealous of it.”

  Her lips press together, and a blush that starts from where my finger is touching her ribs runs up and over her pale skin. Adorable girl + adorable blush. I can’t take it anymore.

  She pulls the shirt from her head, and I catch it before it falls back over her body. The air snaps again, and I hold my breath, noticing sweet hell, she’s holding hers too.

  I move my thumb. It’s just an inch or so, up a rib to the next claw mark, and I pretend to be fascinated by the tattoo still. I focus on the artwork, refusing to look up. But who am I kidding? I’m not fascinated by the ink. I’m enjoying the goose bumps patterning over her skin, the curve of her spine, the ridges in her sides, and the very small—very small—glimpse of breast peeking from her bright orange, ugly, yet still adorable shirt.

  I move my thumb again. Up toward that glimpse of boob, but still very much on her tattoo. She’s letting me touch without smacking my hand away, without throwing me a teasing comment. My heart pounds through my neck. I wonder if she can see my pulse.

  So I look up.

  Meet her eyes.

  And lose my shit.

  Her glasses have slid down again. Those hilarious glasses that suddenly seem so damn sexy. I imagine ripping them off in a moment of heat—kind of like this one—but instead I reach up and nudge them back into place.

  I’m fantasizing about ripping her glasses off. When her shirt’s mostly off already. What the hell is happening to me?

  She lets her shirt fall back into place, the fabric cascading over her soft, inked skin. Something pants and howls right outside, closer than before, but her eyes don’t move. Mine don’t either. And I realize I’m starting to push toward her lips. The lips I suddenly can’t stop looking at or thinking about. A drumroll starts up in the back of my head, putting a beat to the tension thick in the air.

  Her eyes are on my lips too. She wants this? Or is she freaking out about me wanting it? Because she’s stone still.

  I freeze. The drumroll takes a pause. Silence buzzes through my ears.

  This is usually the part when something interrupts the leads, forcing them to take a step back and realize what the hell they’re doing. But there’s no slamming door, no car backfiring or cell phone ringing. There’s absolutely nothing, actually, minus the short, labored breaths echoing between our mouths.

  Nothing’s interrupting.

  Nothing.

  But I’m still not kissing her.

  And I’m not sure why not.

  “Do you hear that?” she asks, and I back the hell up, confused about the noninterrupting interruption.

  “Huh? What? I wasn’t doing anything.”

  She bites her bottom lip, and her brow furrows as she looks over my shoulder. When her eyes widen, I glance too.

  It’s just a dog.

  A normal dog about the size of my calf.

  Not a werewolf or a bear or Sasquatch.

  “That thing was making all that noise?”

  She pushes away from the ice machine, taking the heated air with her. I shake off whatever desire I had to rip her glasses off.

  “Maybe it wasn’t her,” she says, crouching next to the door. The dog paws at the glass, panting so hard its breath leaves a mark.

  “You think it’s hurt?”

  “She might be, but I don’t want to open the door unless I know she’s not going to tear my hand off.”

  “Ditto.” I’ve seen Cujo. I crouch down next to her, pressing my hand up against the glass. “You know it’s a girl?”

  She nods. “Looks like she’s…” Shay’s voice stops, and she kinks her neck to look at the dog’s underbelly.

  “Pregnant?” I finish for her, though the dog doesn’t look it.

  “No. I think she’s…in heat.”

  The words come out of her lips and not three seconds later another dog leaps from nowhere, sporting a pretty large red rocket. Shay and I jump back, both of us falling flat on our asses while Red Rocket gets into position and wastes no time pushing Ms. Heat against the glass.

  Ar, ar, arroooo!

  The dogs pound against the glass door, shaking the bell on the knob. I lean up on my elbows, glancing at Shay with a raised eyebrow. She looks back at me.

  “I th-think,” I stutter, “I think you’re right.”

  And she laughs.

  I mean, a bolting laugh. It’s not silent or suppressed or one of those she uses to humor me. It’s the most gorgeous sound in the world. It drowns out the banging and clanging and howling. It lifts the corners of her mouth, shows me her teeth, creates lines near her beautiful eyes, and next thing I know, my hand finds the back of her neck and I push my lips flush against hers.

  She’s cold. The hair tangled in my fingers is still damp from her shower, her cheeks chilled, and her mouth like ice. The smallest touch of her hand taps my wrist and squeezes at my pounding pulse.

  I should probably break away. But I’m feeling her lips melt, her cheeks warm under my thumbs.

  I suddenly have a million kisses I have to give to her.

  Three million.

  Like they were reserved for this moment right here, not for the countless lips I saw in my future but for the lips that own the most gorgeous laugh I’ve ever heard.

  And it scares the hell out of me.

  My mouth leaves hers with a heavy sigh that comes from deep in my gut. I’m not sure if what I’m feeling is guilt or embarrassment or amazement, but it takes me a few seconds before I can let go of her neck.

  She’s looking at me like she has no clue what just happened, and I wish I could tell her. All I know is that it felt good. That I want more, but I’m not sure how much more. She swallows hard, eyes darting to her shaking hand on my wrist. I realize then that she’s not sure how much she wants either. Or if she even wants it.

  “Shit,” I say, untangling from her. I rest my elbow on my knee and cover my eyes because I’m a damn coward. She should leave. Run as far and as fast as she can from me—the asshole. Shay deserves commitment, someone who’s sure of themselves. As soon as the humping dogs are out of the way we’ll go to our separate rooms and I’ll make wishes for a time machine to go back and erase my lapse in judgment.

  But the thought of that bludgeons me in the chest.

  Then a slightly cold touch on my wrist makes me drop my hand, and I lock eyes with her for two seconds before her lips come crashing down on mine.

  They’re still cold, but her tongue…

  Her tongue is blazing hot.

  And it’s in my mouth.

  I push her back, lock eyes with her again, silently asking her if she really wants this, because I’m not even sure if I do.

  She gives me a barely-there nod.

  I grab at her neck while she grabs at mine and we fight for each other’s tongues. She pushes me to my back, yanking my hands from her face and pinning them to the floor. Her stomach falls flush with mine, and it’s hard. Firm.
Surprising…

  I thought she’d be fragile and soft everywhere, but she’s not. She’s better. She’s a soft woman who is fighting me for control, clawing to get closer, relentless in her quest for satisfaction. It makes me want to fight back, claw back, be as rough and as anxious as I’m feeling. I manage to get out of her firm hold, swinging her around, pinning her with my hips to the floor. She rips her hands out of my grasp, scrapes her nails through my hair, and yanks on the ends hard—making sure I don’t go anywhere, but I’m not going anywhere. I don’t think I want to go anywhere ever again. Screw leaving the ice machine. Screw going back to separate rooms. Hell, screw the audition.

  She makes a throaty noise and I realize how hard my fingers are digging into her ass. I loosen my hold and run my hand up that ugly, adorable shirt, clutching what I know is her tattoo. My lips make a hard path across her jaw and down her neck, and she arches for me to get better access. Then she shivers and flexes under me, her knees trapping my leg between hers.

  Woody’s getting anxious. He’s urging my hips forward, trying to find the soft spot on Shay before we both get our heads back on. He’s relentless, the horny bastard. Nudging me forward when I know I shouldn’t. And like he hears me yelling at him to back off, he stretches harder, causing months’ worth of pain that I just want to get rid of in the best way possible.

  Shay’s fingers tug on my hair again, pull my lips back to hers for one wet, hot kiss, before she breaks it.

  And she bites into my shoulder.

  I blink, gasp, grunt, and try to see, because I’m pretty sure I just blacked out.

  When I come to, Woody has taken over. And he’s not stopping.

  I pull Shay up against me, stand us up, slam her ass down on top of the ice machine and rub against her. Shay tosses her head back, wet hair hitting my hands around her waist. She locks her ankles together over my ass, digging her heels in, urging me forward, faster, harder, moremoremore. She mutters a Korean curse under her breath, and when her eyes meet mine, I stop moving my hips for a second. Just for a second. To pull off those glasses.