Stealing Her (Covet 1)

Tags still clung to half the clothes dangling on her side. And on my side, suits, jackets, coats, furs. A case of Rolex watches with another case of sunglasses above it, at least forty pairs, mainly Ray-Bans, stared back at me.

Shoes of every color and type were to the left by the minibar. He had a few pairs of Pumas and Nikes that looked like they’d never seen the sun. I grabbed a pair of high-tops and located an Under Armour hoodie and a pair of black joggers that wouldn’t look like shit.

I sat on the chair and peeled off my pants, the pain too intense to take anymore. God, I wish he had given me medication. All I had was Advil and memories of guys beating me senseless so I would look like I’d been run over by a truck—literally.

It took me at least fifteen minutes to put on my pants, and by then I was ready to give up. I couldn’t bend over to even get them past my feet, so it took about a dozen tries. I had started sweating by the time I tried to peel my shirt over my head. It had been easier before, maybe because my adrenaline had been pumping. Now I was just in pain, agony, actually.

A throat cleared.

Izzy stood in the doorway, the purple afghan wrapped around her. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard so many creative ways to curse.”

“Yeah, well, you get in a head-on collision and get back to me. My skin hurts,” I said honestly, not remembering even saying anything except shit, so yeah, maybe I wasn’t exactly silent. And now I was ready to curse even louder. She was seeing me without a shirt for the second time. What the hell was I supposed to tell her? I was taking human growth hormones overnight?

“Taking your pain out on your clothing, that’s new.” She tentatively walked into the room and dropped the afghan. The air moved, causing her blouse to billow up enough for me to see two creamy breasts.

Damn it, I needed to get my lust under control and stop staring. That’s what happens when you live with your mother and ignore women who hit on you; you start losing your mind and lusting after your induced-coma twin’s fiancée.

“Let me help.” She got down on her knees in front of me.

I hated it instantly.

She served no one. Least of all me.

“Get up,” I barked, not meaning it to sound as aggressive as it did.

She shot up so fast she almost toppled over me. “Sorry, I was just trying to—”

“Help, I know, and while I’m extremely thankful for that help, I couldn’t—” I gulped. “I didn’t like seeing you putting on my shoes. Women like you don’t put on men’s shoes like servants.”

“Even if I wanted to?”

“Even if you wanted to. Women like you never belong on their knees.” I swallowed thickly as her lips parted. “Or their backs.”

Pain flashed across her face as she looked down at the shoes she was holding. “Here.”

She handed me a tennis shoe and then helped me lean forward to put it on. I held the scream in while putting on both shoes. Sweat drenched my back, so much for that bath.

I still had the hoodie to put on.

I just wanted to be comfortable, in something that made sense, something that felt like me, not like I was stepping into someone else’s skin like a body snatcher.

I tried pulling my shirt up.

Failed.

Tried again.

Gave her a wince and watched as she exhaled and moved her perfectly manicured hands to the bottom of my shirt, once again standing in front of me. I didn’t know what possessed me to put my hands on her hips. Maybe the pain was driving me insane, maybe I just needed to make sure she was real, not something I conjured up in my wildest fantasies, because that’s what she looked like standing there with her long honey hair freed from the tight ponytail and hanging past her breasts, swollen pink lips, and concentration in her eyes like she cared—about me, not him, about this moment between us—when I knew in all reality she didn’t, she didn’t even know me.

“Go slow,” I rasped.

Her eyes flickered to my lips and stayed there for a few brief, charged seconds before she started slowly spreading the shirt off my shoulders. I wanted to kiss her.

I was going crazy.

What would Julian do? Would he mock her? Kiss her? Would he pull her into his arms?

“Is this okay?” she asked, her movements slowing.

More than okay.

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

She was tender, even when she probably had no reason to be. To her I was a cheater, a liar, a manipulator.

“Damn, you would have been a really good nurse, Izzy.” The words were out before I could stop them.