The End - Blackbird book 7

17

Gillian waited for him to walk out and snorted at herself. She was appreciating Brock's firm, tight butt when he pulled up his black pajamas bottoms. A real shame, being deprived of such a nice sight. And then he turned to her! She managed a weary smile. Stupid man! Did he mean to embarrass her to death?

Okay, shower. His offer of lending her bottoms so she didn't have to wear her hard, cold jeans was really thoughtful of him. But first she needed to made it to the shower. And take a shower. Would her legs bear her weight for so long? Would her waist and back endure a standing position? Time to try and see.

She felt utterly stupid, wrapping herself in the bed sheet to get up. But it didn't feel right, strolling around his apartment naked. Stupid or not, it was great being able to get to her feet on her own, and even keep her balance. Yeah, her thighs were cramped stones, her groin itched, her waist ached and her shoulders and neck were rock-stiff. But she was on her feet, right? Jeez, it was all so pathetic! She was supposed to be used to lots of wild sex with young, tireless lovers. And one night with the stupid bitter man had turned her into this aching ruin. She dragged her feet around the bed toward the door and the bathroom. One thing for sure. All the lovers she'd ever had since she divorced Connor's father? All of them would benefit from two or three tips from Brock about foreplay and lovemaking. Two or three dozens.

He heard the soft shuffle of fabric behind him and glanced back from the kitchen. In time to see her step into the bathroom. The blue sheet she held around her seemed to highlight her pale skin, her round shoulders, her slender neck. He paused, pan in hand over the burner, watching her until she closed the door. No matter how trashed his body felt, she was still breathtaking, so beautiful. Now it was so obvious why he'd spent the last two years eternally pissed at her. Such a lousy trick to keep him from falling for her—wrong, Brockner: to keep you from acknowledging you'd fallen for her ever since that night at the alley of the crime scene. Brock scowled down at the pan. So early? He could almost feel his sarcasm patting his shoulder—I'm afraid so.

Meanwhile, Gillian lingered still under the warm rain, letting the hot water give her body some mobility back. It felt good, that her legs stopped trembling if she as much as moved a finger—a cramped finger, of course.

She felt a prick as she washed her body, like a physical flashback of what Brock's hands made her feel. With a chill of pure pleasure, she realized she was doomed. The worst thing about it wasn't her cramped legs, her aching chest, her burning guts, her collapsed lungs. The worst-worst was that she still wanted to keep feeling it—him—again. And again. And again.

No matter the place or the situation, this feeling would haunt her dreams and crouch in wait when she was awake, to jump to her guts as soon as she lowered her guard even an inch. So she'd relive it at the most awkward, unlikely times. And long for it for the rest of her life. That gloomy vision of her future as Brock's sex slave flashed like a beacon in the fog of her head. There'd be time to laugh hard and loud at that label. That morning under the rain it only made her sigh in despair.

In the kitchen, Brock hesitated before setting mugs and dishes on the breakfast bar. Whenever he could, he liked to have breakfast on the couch, watching TV. And this morning he surely needed that instead of a hard stool.

Gillian caught him as he tried to make up his mind. Let's play the Host of the Year, Brockner.

"Would you rather have breakfast at the bar or on the couch?" he asked, forcing his eyes to stay on her face and ignore that she only had a towel wrapped around her.

She pretended to consider the options. "Mind if we have it on the couch?" she replied. The couch where we can cuddle and watch the morning news together like we do in my dreams?

"Sure."

Gillian's chin pointed at the linen closet. "D'you keep your clean sheets in there?"

"Oh, no, I'll do it."

"You're making breakfast," she replied, two plus two.

She hated his smile, that made her want to jump over the bar and on him to kiss him senseless. So she turned her back on him to open the closet and go back to his room.

Brock swallowed a sigh when she closed the door—no peeping show, old perv—and took their dishes to the coffee table. His waist cried out in pain when he leaned forward, and he went back to the kitchen as he tried to remember if he still had painkillers. Of course he did. In his bedroom, along with the rest of the first-aid kit Gillian had bought for him long ago, when he took a bullet on his Kevlar during the Amber Alert. He didn't swallow this sigh. He'd rather die than go fetch them and let her see him take pills to ease his aching old bones.