Up by Five (7 page)

Conner stared at her. “You were with the same guy for two years?”

She nodded.

“What happened?”

She shrugged. “Life.” She’d been sad at the time that she and Greg broke up, but she hadn’t been heartbroken or unable to move on. Which was her sign that the breakup had been a good idea. “We changed. Grew apart.”

He watched her for several long seconds. Then he said, “I’m not scared of you.”

Uh-huh. This was new for him. She knew that. “I would offer to move out and stay with Sierra, but I think this will be good for you.”

“Good for me?”

“To live with a woman who doesn’t fit into any of your categories. Someone you like, who you’re not related to, who isn’t in it just for you and who you’re attracted to.”

Conner frowned. “With a woman who isn’t in it just for me?”

“Oh, come on.” She laughed. “I work at St. A’s, Conner. I’ve heard the girl talk. They’re all so impressed with your reputation as a lover that they all want so bad to be good for you. To be memorable. To rock your world. They’ll do anything for you, right?”

He stepped closer to her. “They all have a fantastic time doing it too.”

She couldn’t help it. Her breath hitched a little at the low, almost dangerous tone in his voice. Still, she had to roll her eyes. Such a guy reaction. “I’m not saying they’re complaining.”

“Then what are you saying?”

She huffed out a breath. “That there’s maybe a little more ‘suck my cock’ than there is ‘suck my clit’ going on.”

Gabby knew instantly that she’d just poked a little too hard.

Conner’s eyes darkened, he moved in close and his voice dropped low. “I can’t fucking believe that Gabby Evans has now said the word
cock
and the word
clit
to me within forty-eight hours.”

Suddenly she couldn’t swallow. “Um…”

“Yeah, um,” he said, leaning closer yet. “Now all you have to say is um?”

“Um…”

Fuck. She
could not be that girl
. But she couldn’t come up with any other words.

He gave her a slow, sexy smile that made her hormones start doing the cha-cha. Because
that one
was real.

“Would you say ‘suck my clit’, Gabby? Because, if so, then hell yeah, I’m attracted.”

She wet her lips and his gaze burned hotter. Would she say “suck my clit” if she were naked with Conner? Would the sun rise in the east?

It was all hypothetical anyway. That was the
type
of girl she was, the type he should spend some time with rather than with his adoring fans. It didn’t mean she was going to actually have a chance to say that.

“It’s not the same if you tell me, or ask me, to say it,” she told him. Did she sound breathless? Dammit. “I’m talking about you being with a girl who can be just as demanding of you in bed. Who’s as concerned about getting what
she
wants as she is about giving you what you want.”

“A girl like you?”

His voice was husky and she swore she could feel him touching every nerve, sending zings of pleasure through her whole body.

Damn, the guy was good.

“I would definitely make you give me what I want,” she said. Because it was true. And because she wanted to prove it right that very second.

He lifted a hand and she held her breath as he traced his thumb over her bottom lip, like he had with the chocolate. “Intriguing.” Then he dropped his hand and stepped back. “It’s really too bad you’re not my type after all.”

He finished off the beer, tossed the can into the recycling bin next to the sink—the guy had a
recycling bin
—and headed down the hallway toward the back of the apartment.

“Guest room is the second door on the right. Towels are in the hall closet.”

Gabby was still staring after him, her body humming, everything in her warm and wet and willing, when he called, “Night,” and shut his bedroom door behind him.

Conner awoke the next morning hard and horny.

He rolled to his back and stared at the ceiling, replaying the dream—that had replayed seemingly twenty times throughout the night—again.

Gabby. And the skimpy tank and shorts from the fire scene. And her long, dark hair flowing down her back. In the dream, she was still talking about him liking girls who were all about
him
…as she went down on her knees and unzipped him. She kept talking about how he kept women at arm’s length and how she could show him that he deserved more, as she took his cock in hand and mouth. And proceeded to give him the best blow job he’d ever had—dream or otherwise.

He certainly hadn’t pushed
her
away. Not during
any
of the dreamworld blow jobs. In fact, he’d sunk his hands deep in her heavy, long hair and pulled her as close as he could get her.

Fuck.

Conner dug the heels of his hands into his eyes.

Intriguing? Hell yes she was intriguing.

He wondered if she’d noticed how he’d run from her last night. Scared of her? Damn right he was. For all the reasons she’d said. She wasn’t his type—meaning she hadn’t come on to him. In fact, she’d been pretty clear about not wanting to get involved with anyone with med school coming up.

Still, he wanted her.

And the idea of her leaving the crew made his stomach hurt.

Fuck.

She was messing with his head. And she was living here. Perfect.

He rolled and looked at the clock. The crew didn’t work today or tomorrow. But who knew what time Gabby got up in the morning? Paramedics and ER staff were used to crazy schedules, sleeping when they could, doing everything when they could. There was no routine, really.

He listened closely, trying to determine if the shower was running or if there was any noise coming from the kitchen. Nothing.

But he could swear he smelled cinnamon.

She was baking for him. Oh hell no.

Cinnamon rolls were one of his favorites.

And the last thing he needed was
another
reason to be surprised—and turned on—by Gabrielle Evans.

Conner got out of bed, pulled on sweats and T-shirt and headed for the kitchen.

Which was empty. Of hot brunettes and anything resembling cinnamon rolls.

He turned a three-sixty. He smelled cinnamon. What the hell?

He noticed the coffeepot was on. That was probably it—some girlie-flavored coffee. But he poured a cup anyway—it was coffee, after all, and he was going to need as much help as he could get today. But when he tasted it, it tasted like plain coffee. Good plain coffee, but still.

Cup in hand, he searched the kitchen. The oven, the microwave, the fridge.

Nothing.

“Morning.”

He jumped, sloshing coffee onto his bare foot. “Dammit!” He swung to face her, fully expecting her to be standing there holding a plate of…something.

But if she was, he never would have noticed it. All he noticed was that she was wearing a tiny, silky camisole and a pair of tiny, silky panties that left
a lot
of bare skin. Very nice, smooth, tan bare skin.

She crossed to the coffeepot, her bare feet with bright-pink toenails padding softly on the wooden floor. Bright-pink toenails. If anyone had asked him if Gabby got pedicures, he would have lost that bet.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. She reached for a coffee cup, the camisole riding higher on her back, exposing more silky skin and firm muscle. She filled the cup and Conner let his eyes wander down over her ass, the long length of thigh, the curve of her calf, to the back of her foot. He wanted to suck on that spot where her calf muscle met her heel. What the fuck was that?

She turned, sipping the coffee. She hadn’t added sugar, cream, milk, nothing. She leaned back against the counter and just looked at him.

Conner forced his gaze to stay on her face. But it was damned difficult. Even if he hadn’t dreamed about her on her knees, pretty mouth around his cock all night, he would have still been painfully hard right now. But he
had
dreamed of her. Over and over.

He was about to lose…something. His cool, his mind, his temper, his…battle to not touch her.

“What the hell are you wearing?” he demanded, blatantly taking in the view.

It was a relief and torture at the same time.

She wasn’t wearing a bra. The pale, cream-colored silk clung to her, the lacy V neckline plunging between her breasts. Her nipples pressed against the soft material and he could imagine perfectly how one would feel against his tongue.

There was about an inch of skin visible between the hem of the cami and the top of her panties. They were also cream colored and silky. And there wasn’t much to them.

He studied her, realizing that she waxed or shaved very thoroughly, and suddenly wanted to know how far she went like he wanted his next breath.

Holy damn. This was Gabrielle Evans. One of the best paramedics he knew, one of the nicest and most practical people he knew, one of the people he most wanted at his side when in the field and one of the people he most looked forward to seeing in the break room at the start of a shift.

He frowned. He hadn’t ever specifically realized that until now. If someone had asked, he would have said, yes, he enjoyed working with Gabby. More, he appreciated her. Her cool calm, her quick decisions, her skill. Her smile. Fuck, there was the thing about her smile again. He’d only realized last night how it calmed him after a trauma. And then he’d said it out loud.

Not good.

But, thinking about it now, it didn’t feel like a new insight, more like something he’d taken for granted.

“I’m wearing some of the only clothes I own at the moment,” she said.

He took his time moving his gaze back up her body. “Sierra didn’t pack you any jeans?”

She sipped her coffee and nodded. “She did. But I don’t sleep in jeans and I just got up.”

“I don’t sleep in sweatpants, but I pulled them on before coming out here,” he said, grumpily.

“What do you sleep in?” she asked, her eyes tracking down over his body just as thoroughly and slowly as his had studied hers.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Nice.”

The way she said it and the way her eyes felt on him was nice, that was for sure.

He frowned. “And you sleep in that?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“What do—” He stopped before playing right into her hands. Barely.

She smiled and sipped again. “It’s a good thing I’m not your type, don’t you think?”

Christ.

His body—and his imagination—clearly didn’t give a damn that she was a brunette. Or that her breasts were small and perky instead of voluptuous like he typically went for. Or that she was at least three inches taller than most of the women he was attracted to.

Or that she hadn’t baked for him this morning.

Women who spent the night always cooked for him in the morning.

“You’re not,” he said, with an apologetic shrug.

“I know. You told me.” She put one hand back on the counter behind her.

The motion pressed her breast forward against the barely there covering.

Conner didn’t groan. But his attempt to keep from groaning came out as a strange grunt that he then had to cover with a cough.

“And it’s a good thing,” she reiterated, “because if I was, we’d never get anything else done during these two months I’m living here.”

“Anything
else
?”

“Besides sex, I mean.”

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Anything else?
Really? He’d asked that? He’d known exactly what she’d been talking about.

“We’d be going at it on every surface in this place. We’d never make it to work. We’d lose our jobs. It is a
very
good thing that I’m not your type.”

She rinsed her cup in the sink before setting it in the top rack of the dishwasher.

Conner imagined taking her over and over again on every surface in the place.

“Did you make something with cinnamon this morning?” he asked as she started to leave the kitchen.

Maybe she’d put on body lotion that smelled like cinnamon.

She stopped. “No, why?”

“You didn’t bake?”

Her eyebrows went up. “No.”

“Did you light a cinnamon candle?” He could
swear
he smelled cinnamon.

“No.”

“Do
you
smell cinnamon?”

“Right now?” she asked, then shook her head. “No.” She frowned. “Do you?”

“Yes. It fucking smells like cinnamon rolls in this kitchen.”

She tipped her head to one side. “Are you having a stroke?” she asked, looking mildly concerned.

“I don’t believe so,” he said dryly.

“But you smell cinnamon.”

“Yes.”

“That’s not actually here?”

He sighed. “Apparently.”

“Did you hit your head last night? Do you suffer from migraines?”

“No and no.” He was evidently just crazy.

She shook her head, and damned if she didn’t look like she felt sorry for him.

“Let me guess,” she said. “Girls always cook for you the morning after. So you automatically woke up thinking ‘there’s a girl in my house’ and expecting cinnamon rolls.”

Conner stared at her. Holy hell. If that was true he was…fucked. And more than slightly pathetic.

“No. It smells like cinnamon in here,” he insisted. Because the other alternative was that he was crazy. And maybe a bit of an asshole.

She smiled. “I actually make amazing cinnamon rolls,” she said. “But,” she added with a shrug, “they’re probably not the
type
you like.”

Then she sashayed her sweet little ass out of the kitchen.

And Conner finally let out the groan that he’d been holding back since she’d walked in.

Living with Conner for two months was going to be fun. The bed in his guest room was amazing, his apartment was clean and comfortable. And it did her female ego good to know that she could affect him.

She didn’t want to do anything about it, but it was nice to know that a guy like Conner—who had lots of women giving him attention—could find her…what was the word he’d used?…oh yes,
intriguing
.