Less than a week…

Some people bitched about the blue screen of death—the computer locking up on them.

Law’s current problem was the white screen of death.   It wasn’t writer’s block.  He knew where he needed to be going with the story and he was getting there—slowly, but surely.  His deadline was getting close, but he wasn’t worried about it.  He’d get there, he always did.

The problem was every time he paused to think through something—and that was often—he found his thoughts drifting.  Shit, screwing drifting.  That made it seem aimless, like there was no destination.

His thoughts were on a zipline, drawn straight to one place—to one person.  Nia.   And instead of the story, he’d find himself thinking about her.

Thinking. Wanting. Craving.  Twice, he even found himself thinking about heading to the hotel.  Once, he even made it all the way to the door before he stopped himself.  He couldn’t be doing that.

Not yet.  What he needed to do was get his head on straight—as far as Nia went, whenever he saw her, the thought process stopped and he needed to get a grip on that before this went any farther.

It seemed like a good, simple, straight forward plan.  One he could stick to easy enough.  After all, she wouldn’t be in town forever, and it wasn’t like he had to go into town, right?

At the sound of the engine rumbling down his drive, Law’s body sprang to immediate reaction.   Swearing, he shoved back from the desk he’d crammed along one wall and headed to the window, staring in disbelief as Nia came cruising down his drive.

“Nia,” he muttered. “Fuck.

Oh, hell—that was a bad couple of words to use so close together, because that was exactly what he thought whenever he thought of her.

Mouth dry, he raked his nails down his stubbled jaw, glanced down at himself.  He’d showered that morning—only way to wake up, but he hadn’t shaved since Friday and the jeans he was wearing had seen better days.  Hell.

This was stupid.  He was not going to stand there and worry about his fucking jeans, any of that shit—he wasn’t Remy, damn it.  What in the hell did he care what clothes he was wearing, as long as they were clean?  He’d showered, he was dressed and that was all that counted, right?

He didn’t even know why she was here, right?

But when she knocked, his body was already one tightly coiled spring and his blood boiled, burned.  Walking was an agony, his cock aching, thick and ready, even before he opened the door.  He could still taste her kisses, still feel how tight, how hot she was.

“Get a grip,” he muttered as he reached out, opened the door.

Nia was staring off to the side, giving him another micro second to get a grip, not that it helped much.  As her head turned and her gaze settled on his, he was left standing there, floundering, burning…aching.

“Hey.”

A smile curved her lips.

“Hey, yourself,” she murmured, cocking her head.  “You up to much today?”

Law jerked a shoulder.  “Not much that has to be done, really.”

She sauntered forward, closing the distance between them, and he tried to remind himself—he already decided he really needed to figure out just what was going on here, whether there even was something here…it was the smart thing to do.  The logical thing.  The adult thing.

But as he breathed in, her scent him, low and hard, spreading through him, heating his already overheated blood, fogging an already fogged brain.  She lifted a hand, rested it on his chest.  “Maybe I can come in for a while…”

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