That night he’d been decked out in all black. Black tactical pants, black boots that came over the top of those pants. A black t-shirt with a black Kevlar vest holding various tools and weapons hanging from it. The sleeve with the wound had been cut off by someone—to evaluate the wound, I was guessing.

But I remember, the most noticeable thing of all, had been the thigh holster on his leg.

It’d been black, too, of course.

But the thigh holster had gone around his leg up high, right under the crease of his hip, and had velcroed together there causing the fabric around his crotch to bunch up.

It’d also velcroed lower around his thigh, about midway to his knee.

But there’d been something about it that was so erotic. The way that his package looked bulging and inviting.

I’d stared at it for a solid minute before my dad had said something to distract me.

That day I hadn’t seen his eyes, the color of his hair, or the expression on his face.

It’d been too dark.

But I’d made it a point since I’d hastily met him to stalk him, and I’d learned a few things.

Saint Nicholson didn’t come to many parties unless he was forced to.

Saint Nicholson had emerald green eyes, brown curly hair, and wore glasses upon occasion when either he was tired or it was a windy day.

Like right now.

With him about to go to bed, I’d watched him take his contacts out over by the minibar and put them into a contact container he’d gotten in the toiletries kit.

Now, he had on his own glasses. The ones that I’d seen him wear a total of eight times since I’d met him a year ago.

And oh, boy.

What those glasses did to me.

Then there were those curls.

He’d just come out of the shower.

I’d admit that I did take a glance over the top of the curtain a time or two, and I’d been enraptured with what I could see.

The very top of his shoulders, starting at the tips of his muscular traps.

But I’d watched as he’d gotten into the shower.

The striptease show of him stripping out of his clothes?

Not seeing was even worse than actually seeing.

My imagination had gone absolutely wild.

And when he’d stepped into the clear shower stall and had dipped his head to let the water wet his hair? I’d moaned when those curls that I’d always wanted to sink my fingers into disappeared.

But now? They were back.

His hair was slightly damp, but the curls were there, coming back with a vengeance.

“Your turn,” he said as he made his way over to the box that we’d deemed as his for the clothes that someone had brought.

They really should’ve spent a little more time with furniture in here before they’d just tossed us in here. I guess that I should be happy that they’d given us a bed and a table.

He had a towel wrapped around his hips, and one over his shoulders. There wasn’t much skin showing, but dammit all to hell, there was enough.

“Cool,” I said, trying to keep my eyes averted.

I made my way to the bathroom and didn’t bother closing the door.

There A, wasn’t one. And B, I didn’t think it would help seeing as half the wall was missing and he was able to see over if he really wanted to.

I looked mournfully at the clothes that I was given earlier after our rigorous decontamination, then thought about all the clothes that were in my box that still had fresh tags.

Fresh tags meant that they hadn’t been washed. And them not being washed meant that they’d be itchy.

And I didn’t do itchy.

Not at all.

I had a tactile/sensory problem. One that meant that I didn’t do tags. I didn’t do itchy shirts. I didn’t do pants that were anything but soft.

Oh, and don’t even get me started on socks.

I had to buy the expensive ones from Bomba because those were the only ones that stayed where they were put, didn’t bother me seam-wise over the toe box, and were soft as a baby’s ass.

Mourning my socks, then deciding that was stupid since I wouldn’t technically be needing socks over the next three weeks, I turned on the shower and tried not to think about the naked man that was in it minutes before me.

I quickly realized that in my haste to get in the shower I’d forgotten the shampoo and conditioner, as well as the soap on the counter outside the shower.

Looking at the white sheet, I decided to go ahead and get out and nab it.

Which I did.

I would’ve gotten back in, too, but the moment that I turned, my feet went out from under me and all of a sudden I was staring up at the ceiling.

What a nice ceiling it was, too.

“Are you okay?” Saint’s deep voice said from somewhere on the other side of the sheet.

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