he smelled cinnamon.
She was baking for him. Oh hell no.
Cinnamon rolls were one of his favorites.
And the last thing he needed was another reason to be surprised—and turned on—by Gabrielle Evans.
Conner got out of bed, pulled on sweats and T-shirt and headed for the kitchen.
Which was empty. Of hot brunettes and anything resembling cinnamon rolls.
He turned a three-sixty. He smelled cinnamon. What the hell?
He noticed the coffeepot was on. That was probably it—some girlie-flavored coffee. But he poured a cup anyway—it was coffee, after all, and he was going to need as much help as he could get today. But when he tasted it, it tasted like plain coffee. Good plain coffee, but still.
Cup in hand, he searched the kitchen. The oven, the microwave, the fridge.
Nothing.
“Morning.”
He jumped, sloshing coffee onto his bare foot. “Dammit!” He swung to face her, fully expecting her to be standing there holding a plate of…something.
But if she was, he never would have noticed it. All he noticed was that she was wearing a tiny, silky camisole and a pair of tiny, silky panties that left a lot of bare skin. Very nice, smooth, tan bare skin.
She crossed to the coffeepot, her bare feet with bright-pink toenails padding softly on the wooden floor. Bright-pink toenails. If anyone had asked him if Gabby got pedicures, he would have lost that bet.
He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. She reached for a coffee cup, the camisole riding higher on her back, exposing more silky skin and firm muscle. She filled the cup and Conner let his eyes wander down over her ass, the long length of thigh, the curve of her calf, to the back of her foot. He wanted to suck on that spot where her calf muscle met her heel. What the fuck was that?
She turned, sipping the coffee. She hadn’t added sugar, cream, milk, nothing. She leaned back against the counter and just looked at him.
Conner forced his gaze to stay on her face. But it was damned difficult. Even if he hadn’t dreamed about her on her knees, pretty mouth around his cock all night, he would have still been painfully hard right now. But he had dreamed of her. Over and over.
He was about to lose…something. His cool, his mind, his temper, his…battle to not touch her.
“What the hell are you wearing?” he demanded, blatantly taking in the view.
It was a relief and torture at the same time.
She wasn’t wearing a bra. The pale, cream-colored silk clung to her, the lacy V neckline plunging between her breasts. Her nipples pressed against the soft material and he could imagine perfectly how one would feel against his tongue.
There was about an inch of skin visible between the hem of the cami and the top of her panties. They were also cream colored and silky. And there wasn’t much to them.
He studied her, realizing that she waxed or shaved very thoroughly, and suddenly wanted to know how far she went like he wanted his next breath.
Holy damn. This was Gabrielle Evans. One of the best paramedics he knew, one of the nicest and most practical people he knew, one of the people he most wanted at his side when in the field and one of the people he most looked forward to seeing in the break room at the start of a shift.
He frowned. He hadn’t ever specifically realized that until now. If someone had asked, he would have said, yes, he enjoyed working with Gabby. More, he appreciated her. Her cool calm, her quick decisions, her skill. Her smile. Fuck, there was the thing about her smile again. He’d only realized last night how it calmed him after a trauma. And then he’d said it out loud.
Not good.
But, thinking about it now, it didn’t feel like a new insight, more like something he’d taken for granted.
“I’m wearing some of the only clothes I own at the moment,” she said.
He took his time moving his gaze back up her body. “Sierra didn’t pack you any jeans?”
She sipped her coffee and nodded. “She did. But I don’t sleep in jeans and I just
She was baking for him. Oh hell no.
Cinnamon rolls were one of his favorites.
And the last thing he needed was another reason to be surprised—and turned on—by Gabrielle Evans.
Conner got out of bed, pulled on sweats and T-shirt and headed for the kitchen.
Which was empty. Of hot brunettes and anything resembling cinnamon rolls.
He turned a three-sixty. He smelled cinnamon. What the hell?
He noticed the coffeepot was on. That was probably it—some girlie-flavored coffee. But he poured a cup anyway—it was coffee, after all, and he was going to need as much help as he could get today. But when he tasted it, it tasted like plain coffee. Good plain coffee, but still.
Cup in hand, he searched the kitchen. The oven, the microwave, the fridge.
Nothing.
“Morning.”
He jumped, sloshing coffee onto his bare foot. “Dammit!” He swung to face her, fully expecting her to be standing there holding a plate of…something.
But if she was, he never would have noticed it. All he noticed was that she was wearing a tiny, silky camisole and a pair of tiny, silky panties that left a lot of bare skin. Very nice, smooth, tan bare skin.
She crossed to the coffeepot, her bare feet with bright-pink toenails padding softly on the wooden floor. Bright-pink toenails. If anyone had asked him if Gabby got pedicures, he would have lost that bet.
He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. She reached for a coffee cup, the camisole riding higher on her back, exposing more silky skin and firm muscle. She filled the cup and Conner let his eyes wander down over her ass, the long length of thigh, the curve of her calf, to the back of her foot. He wanted to suck on that spot where her calf muscle met her heel. What the fuck was that?
She turned, sipping the coffee. She hadn’t added sugar, cream, milk, nothing. She leaned back against the counter and just looked at him.
Conner forced his gaze to stay on her face. But it was damned difficult. Even if he hadn’t dreamed about her on her knees, pretty mouth around his cock all night, he would have still been painfully hard right now. But he had dreamed of her. Over and over.
He was about to lose…something. His cool, his mind, his temper, his…battle to not touch her.
“What the hell are you wearing?” he demanded, blatantly taking in the view.
It was a relief and torture at the same time.
She wasn’t wearing a bra. The pale, cream-colored silk clung to her, the lacy V neckline plunging between her breasts. Her nipples pressed against the soft material and he could imagine perfectly how one would feel against his tongue.
There was about an inch of skin visible between the hem of the cami and the top of her panties. They were also cream colored and silky. And there wasn’t much to them.
He studied her, realizing that she waxed or shaved very thoroughly, and suddenly wanted to know how far she went like he wanted his next breath.
Holy damn. This was Gabrielle Evans. One of the best paramedics he knew, one of the nicest and most practical people he knew, one of the people he most wanted at his side when in the field and one of the people he most looked forward to seeing in the break room at the start of a shift.
He frowned. He hadn’t ever specifically realized that until now. If someone had asked, he would have said, yes, he enjoyed working with Gabby. More, he appreciated her. Her cool calm, her quick decisions, her skill. Her smile. Fuck, there was the thing about her smile again. He’d only realized last night how it calmed him after a trauma. And then he’d said it out loud.
Not good.
But, thinking about it now, it didn’t feel like a new insight, more like something he’d taken for granted.
“I’m wearing some of the only clothes I own at the moment,” she said.
He took his time moving his gaze back up her body. “Sierra didn’t pack you any jeans?”
She sipped her coffee and nodded. “She did. But I don’t sleep in jeans and I just
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