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I don't fuck my daughter's friends. Ever.
But I haven’t fucked anyone at all since I met this particular friend. I keep telling myself it’s because I don’t have time. When I’m being honest with myself, I know that’s a fucking lie. Somewhere over the last four years, Mila Lawson became an obsession I couldn't shake. I've fucking tried. Christ, I've tried. But I can't get her out of my head.
"Motherfucker," I mutter, my heart hammering against my ribcage as I secure my weapon and tuck it into the waistband of my suddenly too-tight jeans. Instead of going inside, I stand there for a minute, watching her, trying to get my heart rate and dick under control.
She leans over the back of the couch, focused on something out of sight.
Her shorts barely cover her round ass and thick thighs. And her legs? Goddamn. Those legs are going to be the death of me. They're completely bare and on full display, making my cock painfully hard. Her blonde hair tumbles in waves down her back, loose from the bun she usually contains it in. Her full lips move as if she's talking to someone, but she's alone.
What is she doing here?
Shit. She can't be here. Not right now. Not when Guerrero and his gang may be looking for me.
Before I can even process the sliver of fear working its way through me, I'm moving quickly up the steps onto the deck and then striding toward the open door.
"Mila."
She jumps backward when I bark her name, a startled cry falling from her lips. Her hip bumps against the table behind the couch, and the glass of wine resting on top wobbles and then crashes to the ground. Shattered glass and white wine spread across the floor at her feet.
Mila's gaze meets mine, her mesmerizing green eyes wide and dilated with fear and something else. Sadness. It clings to her, lingering in her eyes and the dark shadows beneath. And fuck me. The sight makes something possessive twist through me hard and fast. I want to pull her into me and tell her that everything is okay, protect her from whatever has that look on her face.
I don't do that, though.
"You can't be here," I say instead. The words come out a lot harsher than I intended, but I don't call them back. I fucking can't. For more reasons than I'm willing to admit, even to myself.
She stares at me for a long moment and then shakes her head as if clearing it. "I'm sorry, Mr. Gregory. I didn't know you were going to be here. I–"
I jolt forward to stop her when she steps backward, but it's already too late.
She cries out as her right foot comes down on a shard of glass. Blood immediately drips onto the floor, running in a rivulet from her heel.
"Shit." I grab her around the waist, plucking her up off the floor and into my arms. My cock jerks as soon as I have my hands on her. Her skin is soft, and she smells like peaches and sunshine. That combination sends heat twisting through me.
Gritting my teeth, I try to ignore my body's reaction to her. I hold her weight easily, tucking her into my chest. Glass crunches under my boots as I stride toward the kitchen.
Mila whimpers, clinging to me like she's afraid I'm going to drop her, but there's no chance in hell of that happening. She may be curvy, but she's petite. I lift far more than her weight every day. Standing upright, she barely reaches my chest. She fits in my arms like she belongs there.
"I've got you," I say into her ear to reassure her and then flip on the kitchen light. Turning toward the sink, I set her on top of the counter before spinning to grab a hand towel. I try hard not to think about how soft her body is or about how she curled into me the instant I had my arms around her.
"I'm so sorry," she whispers in distress, her eyes wide as she stares at her blood smeared down my shirt and jeans.
I don't respond, instead turning on the faucet and letting the water wash away the blood still dripping in a steady stream from her foot. She cries out when the water rushes over the cut, and the sound goes right through me. I hate knowing she's injured and in pain because I was a dick.
I turn the faucet off once most of the blood has washed away and then adjust her so I can see how bad the damage is. The cut isn't large, but there's a sliver of glass still embedded in her skin. I hand her the towel, instructing her to hold onto it, and then move to grab the first aid kit out of the drawer across the room. Once I've gotten everything I need out and ready, I look up at her.
Her plump bottom lip is between her teeth. Tears shine in her green eyes.
Fuck. I'm an asshole.
"This is going to hurt," I warn her, speaking quietly. My throat is dry, my voice husky.
She nods bravely, clenching her hands into fists around the towel.
I grit my teeth and work quickly to remove the piece of glass with a pair of tweezers, trying not to hurt her. Once the glass is out, I pry the towel from her grip and hold it against her foot. She doesn't make a sound as I apply pressure to slow the bleeding. Doesn't even flinch.
When I glance up at her, she still has tears in her eyes, but they haven't fallen. She may be in pain, but she isn't delicate. She's a fucking warrior. Since the day I met her, she's been that way.
Pride for her bravery twists through me, leaving me feeling unsettled and turned on at the same time.
