Fire and Ice - Anne Stuart [47]
She wasn’t his type—apart from the fact that every female under the age of fifty was his type. She was gaijin, she was American, she was as tall as he was and she was trouble. He had very few rules in his life, but one was never to sleep with anyone who came with strings attached. Ji-chan was so tied up in his family she was practically an exercise in bondage.
And that was not what he wanted to be thinking of right now, when he was trying to keep his mind off his dick. She looked almost innocent as she slept, not the sharp-tongued pain in the ass he knew her to be. But then, he wouldn’t be as drawn to someone so vulnerable. He kept away from the innocent and the needy at all times. It only led to trouble.
And that was exactly what Ji-chan was. Nothing but trouble of the most basic sort. He’d done his best to make sure he’d rid her of any lingering, childish fantasies about him. It was a lot better, safer, that way.
But now that she was over him he had to work on getting over her. Which might be even harder to do.
He was tired, so bone-tired he could fall asleep in the chair. Which is just what he needed to do. It didn’t matter that she looked like she belonged on his futon. It didn’t matter that there was plenty of room for him, too, if he slept close to her. She’d used his almond-scented soap, and the smell of it on her skin was making him crazy. If it weren’t dead winter, he’d open a window.
A cold shower might help. Then he could stretch out on the kitchen floor, far enough away from her to be safe. He’d slept in worse places, and being uncomfortable would be good for him. He could look at her, a few feet away, and resent her.
The problem was, he realized half an hour later as he tried to get comfortable on the tatami mat, that now he smelled like almond soap, as well. And just to make his torture complete, this was the night she decided to toss about in her sleep, her long, bare legs kicking out from his plain cotton robe, the neckline pulling away, showing too much of the soft curve of her breast. And when she turned her back it was even worse. The nape of her neck had to be the hottest thing he’d ever seen, vulnerable, the spiky blond hair curling slightly above it. There was a reason geisha wore their kimono pulled down slightly in the back. The delicate nape of a neck could be a more powerful turn-on than a spread shot in Penthouse, or so his grandfather had always told him. And damn if the old man wasn’t right.
He rolled over on his side, turning away from her, but the scent of almonds on his own skin was almost enough to get him to go shower again, this time with dish soap. But he didn’t need to. The day that he couldn’t control his need for sex was the day he was in big trouble. He could lie a few feet from Ji-chan and forget all about her. Or die trying.
She was never going to get used to sleeping on a futon, Jilly decided as she slowly opened her eyes to the shadowy apartment. Her entire body hurt, though part of that might be from the endless sprint away from the yakuza compound. She pushed up from the mattress, then realized her robe had come apart, revealing far too much of her breasts. She yanked it together quickly, peering around the darkened apartment for signs of life. Had Reno left her once more?
And then she saw the shape lying on the tiny patch of floor in the kitchen area. His back was to her, but there was no mistaking the bright hair, and the thin blanket draped over his long, lean body. He was lying on the floor, which had to be even worse than a futon. He’d probably rather lie on a bed of nails than have to be close to her, she thought glumly. She should be grateful, not miffed.
“Go back to sleep.” His deep, sleepy voice came from the kitchen, even though he hadn’t moved.
“I can’t.”
He turned, lifting his head. “I don’t think you want me to come over there and help you out again, do you?”
The apartment was cold, but heat ran through