Dirty Princes (Hot Candy 3)

***

He stops at the entrance of a non-descript building, a few blocks away from the gym, and puts the key in the lock.

Then he stops and turns to look at me, as if he’d forgotten I was there.

What’s with me and being attracted to people who ignore me? At least in Brylee’s case it’s a running joke.

“Wanna come up?” he asks.

I open my mouth to say no, but his gaze has lit up, a glint of emotion dancing in the gray like a tiny flame, and I’m transfixed.

“Sure,” I hear myself say as if from a distance.

Once again I find myself doing something that isn’t part of my plan, something I shouldn’t. Brylee would have a good laugh with me over this.

And why am I thinking of her as I follow a handsome guy up to his apartment?

This is it, I’m officially off my rocker.

We ride up in the elevator in silence, and I try not to stare at the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks or the way his pants hug the package between his legs.

Licking my lips, I tear my gaze away and keep it on the fucking doors.

They ding open, and we step onto a dark landing. Riddick produces a key from his jeans pocket and lets us inside an equally dark and cold apartment.

My first thought is that I don’t blame his brother for leaving.

And then I wince, because that’s stupid. It’s obvious Riddick hasn’t been in all day, and that’s why the heat is off.

Besides, it’s his brother. Can’t say I know much about brotherly love as I’ve never had any siblings of my own, but family ties are strong, that much I know.

“Sorry for the mess,” Riddick says, starting to bend over to gather a sweater from the sofa and stopping mid-motion with a gasp. “Fucking ow.”

“Dammit.” I grab his arm to steady him. His face is white with pain. “You need to lie down.”

“Yes, Mom,” he has the audacity to mutter, and it shocks a bark of laughter from me. I’ve never been described as the maternal type in my life.

“Want me to spank you, too?”

He gapes at me, and I also have to wonder at myself. What’s gotten into me?

“You’re supposed to laugh,” I inform him.

“Ha. Ha.”

“Because I don’t spank injured men.” I guide him out of the living room toward what I’m guessing are the bedrooms. “Bad for the back.”

This time he does laugh, then gasps again. “Christ, stop.”

His bedroom is small and messy, the covers bunched up on a narrow bed. A chair stands in a corner loaded with what can only be dirty clothes.

My father would have had a fit entering the room. My bedroom has always been an example of military order. Even when Mom was alive he’d been in charge of insti

lling the principles of tidiness and discipline in me.

And after she died, well… It felt even more imperative to keep to those principles, for all kinds of reasons.

I help a pale Riddick lie down on the bed, tugging the covers to the floor, from where I intend to pick them up and fold properly later.