When he turned back, he found Reagan shuffling from the entrance. Shuffling, because instead of the heels she’d worn in, she had fluffy blue slippers on her feet. He stared at them while she made her way over to sit in a chair beside the tub.

“Did you skin the Cookie Monster to make those?”

She pinched his shoulder. “They were a gift. Marianne hates when I wear heels in her training room, so I am abiding by her wishes.”

He glanced at the four corners of the ceiling. “You know she can’t see you, right? The place isn’t bugged.”

“I’m abiding by her wishes,” Reagan said firmly. Then she let her hand drift to his hair. Fingernails scratched lightly against his scalp, and he could almost—almost—forget he was submerged up to his nipples in ice-cold water. His head drifted back to the edge of the tub, he let his eyes close, and he sighed.

Still scratching, she used her other hand to pick up one of his. Her thumb ran over the abrasions on his knuckles. “These need some ice time, too.”

He let his fist drop into the water, though he’d already iced it once when he’d run back to the BOQ for his swim trunks.

“What happened?” she asked quietly. “I’m sorry, I know you probably don’t want to talk about it but I had to at least try.”

He sighed. She’d held off longer than he thought she would. “He pissed me off.”

“I imagine a lot of people piss you off. You don’t often use your fists to solve it.”

There had been a day when fists had been all he’d known. His, someone else’s . . .

“He said some rude stuff, and I overreacted. I was in a bad mood, I made a bad choice . . .” Yadda yadda yadda “. . . and that’s it. It’s over. I served penance, I won’t be making the mistake again. I was stupid, but I’m not an idiot.”

Her fingers paused then, but resumed their delicious path through his hair. “That’s an interesting way of putting it.”

“You can always be stupid in the moment. But an idiot . . . that’s a permanent address. I’ll have stupid moments all the time. But I’m not an idiot.”

“Never said you were. Far from.” She sat back, her fingers trailing down his neck, his shoulder, his arm until they fell away completely. He missed the touch. “I’ll let you soak now.”

It was caught in his throat, to tell her what Tressler had said. It wouldn’t have changed anything between them. He knew she wouldn’t be offended. She might have even laughed. But for some reason, he couldn’t make the words come out.

CHAPTER

23

Greg waited until Reagan unlocked her apartment door before giving her the truth. “I’m gonna leave it here tonight.”

She turned, raising a brow at him in the weak light of the single exposed bulb that served as a security feature in this piece of shit building.

“I’m tired, you know. Rough day.” When she said nothing, he felt an unexplained urge to fill the silence. “Because of all the running. Not my thing, the distance part.” When she just stared, he felt his irritation rise. “Say something.”

“You done?” she asked quietly.

“Done what?”

“Making shitty excuses.”

He blinked at that. “They weren’t excuses, they were—”

“Excuses. If you don’t want to come in, then just say you don’t want to come in.” She walked through the door, but left it open. Talk about irresponsible. In an apartment complex like this, an unopened door was an invitation for serious trouble. He quickly followed her in.

“You can’t leave your door open in this place. It’s like asking Satan in for tea.” He closed it firmly behind him, locking all three deadbolts.

“Got you in here, didn’t it?” She walked in from the kitchen, holding two bottles of water. She handed him one with a smile, uncapped hers and drank. “Sucker. I also do card tricks and make balloon animals.” She took one last sip and put the bottle back in the fridge before walking into the bedroom.

“You do?” He uncapped his water, downed half of it in one swallow, then put it in the fridge next to hers and followed her into the bedroom. She’d already removed her suit jacket and was kicking her heels off. He knew she’d put them away properly in a moment so they would stay nice. He loved watching her get undressed. It was about as economical as anything he’d seen before. So methodical, how she folded this, hung that, straightened everything perfectly on the hangers so she saved on dry cleaner bills. All her shoes lined up perfectly in little rows like good soldiers in the closet and along one wall because, well, she’d run out of room in the closet for them.

And he loved that she didn’t give him crap about leaving his own clothing in a pile on the floor. Oh, he wasn’t an asshole. If it was dripping with sweat, he draped it over the shower rod to dry. But for the most part, he was a strip-and-dump kind of guy, and she never hassled him for it.

He loved this part of the day, just decompressing with her. The little nuances of her personality and his meshing in their own private cocoon.

And that was beyond mushy and there was no way he would ever admit to thinking it. God.

When he’d changed into dry boxers, board shorts hung to dry, he found her already in bed, rubbing lotion on her hands. He slid in beside her, waited for her to turn the light off, and let her curl up beside him.

“Your skin is still cold,” she said, running her hand from his shoulder down to his wrist, then back up and over his chest. Her fingers inadvertently—or maybe purposefully—flicked over his nipple, and it tightened in response.

“Ever taken an ice bath before?”

She shook her head, lips brushing against his arm.

“Here’s a secret . . . it’s fucking cold. I might still be cold next week.”

She chuckled quietly, pressing a kiss to his side. “Poor baby.” Her hand skimmed lower, until it dipped into the waistband of his boxers. “We should probably warm you up a bit.”

He squirmed, giving her time to feel and explore his cock with her hands. Her fingers brushed over his balls—which were still indignant about their dunking earlier—and they twitched. She cupped them, rubbing her thumb over them, and the heat of her hand spoke a language they knew well. They grew heavy under her fondling.

“Poor Greg,” she said in a whisper, kissing over his chest. “I bet your lower half wasn’t all that happy about the temperature of your bath tonight, was it?”

“Hell no.” She worked her way down, pushing the covers to the side as she did. Her lips were warm, so warm, but they left a path of goosebumps in their wake.

She pushed down his boxers, and then—before he could ask, because he was damn near close to begging—she wrapped her lips around him and pulled hard.

One hand cupped his balls, the other wrapped tightly at the base of his shaft. And there was no longer an inch of his skin that felt the chill anymore. He was burning up, burning for her. She did a little sucky-swirl thing with her tongue, and his hips pumped up on instinct.

He was on the brink, so close, when she pulled away completely.

“Wait, no . . .” He bit back a moan. “Reagan, honey . . .”

“Stop your whining.” She grabbed a condom from the bedside drawer, rolled it down him herself, then lifted up her simple cotton nightgown. It was like the curtains going up on a stage, and he had the most gorgeous, sexy seat in the house.

“No jokes about riding this time,” she whispered. “Just make love to me.”

He rolled her under him in one quick flash. “Not a problem, baby.”

*   *   *

GREG lay spent, Reagan’s body draped over his like a cloak. Her breathing had returned to normal, and his was nearing the same pace. Her breath was hot on his neck.

“Tell me something.”