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his underwear. “But I can’t tell if they’re boxers or briefs. What a waste.”
    “My briefs are a waste?”
    She looked up. “Yeah . . . those too.” She continued cutting. “Having your ass in a sling is the real waste,” she mumbled.
    He craned his neck to see her face. “What?”
    “This whole scenario is a sad waste—the sofa, the ambience, your bare ass. I could fantasize all three into a much better situation.”
    “C’mere.” He crooked a finger, and she leaned down so far, she practically lay beside him. Not even the sofa’s aged musk nor the brackish scent of low tide at this end of the building calmed her raging hormones.
    Paxton caught the under-wave of her natural pageboy and tucked a thick curl behind her ear. The slide of his fingers along her earlobe radiated to her breasts, budded her nipples, and brought her to flower.
    She could go to bed with this man, which was saying something. She was particular. Not liking to be touched did that to a woman.
    “Go ahead, distract me from the pain,” he whispered, his lips so close she could meet them. “Tell me your fantasy.”
    Fantasy? Oh yeah. Well, at least he had a playful side, even if it was only sex play. She wanted the real thing, not the fantasy, but her seducer was too skewered to play the kind of game her body craved after his sensual onslaught. She wanted to be impaled . . . by him. “Much good you do me like that,” she said.
    “You’re all heart, Cartwright.”
    “I try.” She turned her mournful sigh into a sexy one. “Okay, here’s the fantasy . . . I’m thinking your chest is as exposed as your ass—”
    “Your word choice sorely lacks fantasy quality. As a matter of fact, it’s flip and annoying.”
    “Sorry,” she whispered and blew in his ear. “I’ll try to be dulcet and seductive in tone.” She sat up and turned her attention to his tush.
    “Without sarcasm,” he suggested, resting his forehead on the sofa arm.
    “Fine. In my mind, I’m stripping you naked, slow and easy, one piece of clothing at a time, and I’m kissing every bit of skin I expose, licking you inch by salty inch.” She picked up the spray can of topical anesthetic. “Then, because I want that hot rod where it belongs, I stand and take off my panties, one side, then the other . . . and you reach up and—” She sprayed his butt.
    Paxton yelped.
    “I didn’t touch you.”
    “That was as cold as your heart.”
    “You must’ve made one tough soldier, buster.”
    “I never joined the military.”
    “Don’t military school grads usually go on to join one branch of the service or another?”
    “I didn’t graduate.”
    “You didn’t quit. You’d rather be shot than quit. What happened?”
    Paxton heaved a sigh. “I was expelled, if you must know. Ouch! Cripes!”
    “Splinter’s out!”
    “You could’ve warned me.”
    “I wanted to surprise you so you wouldn’t . . . ah . . . clench. Maybe I should bruise some southernwood from Gussie’s witch garden and spread it on your ass. Her grimoire says that southernwood ‘draws forth splinters and thorns from the flesh.’ It makes a good worm medicine, too.”
    “I wonder how many people she shot with those bayonets, if she had to grow her own remedy.” Paxton touched his temple. “Look at me, talking like there is a—”
    “Don’t say it. You can’t afford another hole in your—”
    He looked back at her. “Being tended by you is like playing ice hockey bare-assed.”
    “Or like being seduced with no payoff?”
    Paxton slammed his forehead against the sofa arm several frustrated times.
----
Chapter Nine
    “NOW we have to get you back on the job as if nothing happened.” Harmony cleaned and disinfected Paxton’s wound, applied an antibiotic ointment, and covered it with a bandage. All set.” She palmed, stroked, and slapped his perfect, undamaged cheek. “Soft as a newborn peach,” she said, sliding a roving finger lower, lower . . . but stopping short of giving