“I’m going to change and then clean up the kitchen,” she said as she stepped out and pulled the door partially shut. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

There was a brief pause. Like she was searching for something to say.

“Good night, then,” she murmured.

“ ’Night.”

After she closed him in, he listened to her going to her room, her footfalls soft and steady. Overhead, he couldn’t hear her walking around, but he imagined her heading into that massive closet and taking off her black dress.

Yeah . . . that zipper inching down, showing him her back. The shoulders of the top part sliding off her arms . . . the material pooling at her waist and then slipping from her hips.

His cock twitched.

Then got fully hard.

Shit. Just what he didn’t need.

Going into the bathroom, he stopped and had to shake his head at his host. On the marble counter, she’d left out fresh towels, a collection of toiletries, a tube of Neosporin, and a box of Band-Aids. There was also a fleece that was man-sized and a set of drawstring flannel pajama bottoms that sent a spike of jealousy straight through his chest.

He hoped like hell they really were her brother’s. And not some slick-suited lawyer type who slept with her.

Cursing himself, he ducked into the glass shower and turned on the water. It was no business of his who her lovers were—what flavor or how many or when and where. And as for the flannel pj thing? They were clean and going to keep him from flashing his ass.

Didn’t matter whose they were.

He took off his sweatshirt and double-checked his guns. Then he pulled his muscle shirt over his head, slid his pants off and got a gander at his reflection in the mirror: lot of black-and-blues on his shoulders and chest interspersed among the network of old scars that had healed up just fine.

Hard not to wonder what Grier would think of him.

Then again, if they hooked up in the dark, he wouldn’t have to worry about—

“Fuckin’ A.” He so needed to cut that crap.

Getting into the shower, he wondered exactly what it was about her that got him thinking like a fifteen-year-old. And decided it had to be the fact that he hadn’t had sex in a year and had been in a fight tonight—both of which were the kind of things that juiced a guy up.

Really.

They so did.

He couldn’t possibly be jonesing for his attorney just because she was five-feet-nine of all woman, wrapped up in a Tiffany-style package.

Unfortunately, whatever the cause, it turned out soap and hot water didn’t help his hormone overload. As he washed himself off, his hands on his skin were slippery and warm . . . and the soap ran down between his legs, dripping off his hard cock and tickling over his tight balls.