From out of nowhere, and against management’s memo to the contrary, the memory of having Grier up close and personal grabbed hold of his brain and went bulldog. No matter how much he tried to forget or focus on something else, there was no detaching what it felt like to have been that near to her.

God, her lips had been an inch from his own. All it would have taken was an incline of the head and he would have kissed—

The release came on fast and powerful, ramming into him so hard, he had to turn into his biceps and bite down to keep from barking her name out loud.

And damn him to hell, he rode it to the last jerking spasm, milking himself until his knees went loose and he tasted blood from the biting.

In the aftermath, he sagged and felt like a wasteland on the inside, as if coming had drained him of not just the sexual impulse, but everything else.

He was so tired.

So very, very tired.

With a curse, he reached out the hand that had done the work and made sure there were no traces of anything on the marble or the glass. Then he rinsed off one last time, cut the water, and stepped from the misty confines that had gotten him into trouble.

He was still hard. In spite of the exhaustion. And the exercise.

Clearly, his cock hadn’t bought the bribe.

And yup, he was right: Flannel did absolutely nothing to conceal the hey-could-we-do-some-more-of-that. If anything, that pole thing made him look twice the size he was—which, considering he was hung to begin with, was not the direction he wanted to go in.

Folding up his erection and nailing it flat against his belly with the waistband of the pj’s, he reached for the fleece and prayed it came down on him far enough to hide that flushed head of his.

Which was still just full of bright ideas—

Okay, total no-go on the conceal. The pullover might have been long enough if his chest hadn’t been so big. As it stood? He was more naked than naked as he flashed his goods.

Isaac ditched the fleece and threw on his sweatshirt; the muscle shirt was just too nasty after the fight. Damn thing should be burned, not cleaned.

And before he made the return trip downstairs, he hit the first-aid supplies, although not because he cared: Sure as shit, if he didn’t use them, she was going to insist on coming up here and playing Florence Nightingale.

So not a good plan, considering what he’d just done.