Page 32 of Dirty Work

We stay that way for I don’t know how long until I’m semirecovered and able to stand, easily managing to take her with me despite the fact that I’ve got one arm strapped to my chest.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her legs coming up to wrap around my waist.

“Taking you to bed. I’m not through with you yet.” Not by a long shot.

I head for her room, remembering there’s an overgrown, overly affectionate canine in mine. Not because I have an aversion to women invading my inner sanctum. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.

“I thought kitchen stools and 1960s-inspired armchairs were where we did our best work,” Ainsley jokes.

“Nightingale,” I say, shouldering my way into the room and depositing her on the bed. “You haven’t even begun to see my best work.”

Consciousness comes slowly the next morning, courtesy of what sounds like an army of orcs banging on my front door. It takes me a few seconds to get my bearings. This isn’t the master suite. I’m in one of the spare bedrooms, Ainsley’s soft, warm, fabulously naked body draped deliciously across mine.

Memories of last night come flooding back—the strip Scrabble, the down-and-dirty cowgirl chair sex, the slower, sweeter, more traditional but no less intense missionary bed sex, not once, not twice, but three times—and my dick stirs to life, ready for round five. Maybe a little soapy shower action.

Then the banging starts up again, joined by an unfortunately familiar howl from my bedroom, and I have no choice but to extricate myself from Ainsley’s embrace. She stretches, moans and rolls over, burying her beautiful face in one of my luxury goose down pillows.

Damn.Looks like I wore her out. A kernel of pride plants itself in my sternum and swells to the size of a soccer ball, puffing out my chest.

I drop a kiss in the sex-mussed hair at the top of her head and make my way toward the living room to find my long-ago discarded sweats. On the way, I spot my sling, tossed aside after round one—or was it two?—of bed sex. The doc said I can sleep without it, although there wasn’t a whole lot of sleeping going on in here last night. I consider taking the time to wrangle my way back into the damn thing, but the banging and the howling are picking up speed and volume. Leaving the sling where it is, I continue on my way, closing the bedroom door behind me so I don’t disturb Sleeping Beauty.

“Hold your horses, I’m coming,” I shout, not sure if it’s directed at Roscoe, whoever’s at the door or both. I decide to deal with the dog first. I crack my bedroom door open to let him out, and he practically bowls me over on his way to the kitchen to check out the food and water situation.

After a quick peek inside to make sure he hasn’t peed on my designer bedspread or chewed up one of my Gucci loafers, I head for the door. I’m halfway there when Connor’s voice rings out through the banging.

“I know you’re in there, Lawson. The doorman’s working a double shift. He said you haven’t left since last night.”

I’ve got to have a word with that guy. He’s not supposed to let anyone up without calling first.

“How did you con your way past him?” I ask, opening the door.

“I’m on your emergency contact list.” He brushes past me into the kitchen, stopping to pet Roscoe, who’s sitting mournfully next to his empty food bowl. “I’ve been trying to call you for over an hour.”

I dump a couple of scoops of kibble from the wholesale club–size bag on the floor next to the refrigerator into Roscoe’s bowl and lean against the counter. “What’s up?”

Roscoe wedges his big body between me and Connor, buries his face in his food and starts chowing down like he hasn’t eaten since there was a Bush in the White House.

Connor steps around the dog and pulls out a stool to sit down. “Your guy in Miami faxed some documents for you to go over. Said it’s time sensitive. He wants you to get a hold of him as soon as you’ve read them.”

“Why didn’t he fax them here?”

“Beats me. You’ll have to ask him.”

He hands over a large manila envelope, then frowns. “Where’s your sling?”

“Relax, Dr. House. I’m allowed to take it off to sleep.”

“You’re not sleeping now.”

I toss the envelop onto the counter. “I just woke up. Cut me some slack.”

Connor’s eyes dart to the digital clock on the microwave above the stove. “Jake Lawson, sleeping past seven? What’s wrong? Are you sick? Hung over? Or did you stay up all night playing hide the cannoli with your new roommate?”

It takes everything I have not to smack the smirk off his smug, pretty-boy face. He may be my best friend, but right now he might as well be Draco Malfoy to my Harry Potter. I’ve got to get him out of here before Ainsley stumbles out of bed, all morning-after sleepy and sexy and clearly well fucked. One look at her and Connor will know exactly what went down last night.

Or who went down on who.

I scrape a hand across my five o’clock–shadowed jaw and eye the Keurig. Connor’s self-congratulatory, superior, I-told-you-so is the last fucking thing I need without caffeine in my system.