Two things happen at the same time.
He begins to murmur something, but I don’t hear what because my germ-avoiding instinct kicks in and I jerk away—and smash my head into the side window.
The look on his face is one I haven’t seen in this situation before.
It’s not annoyance, or betrayal, or rejection.
It’s worry. Maybe pity too—and I hate that.
“My head is okay.” Contradicting my words, I rub the back of my throbbing skull.
“I swear I was about to ask you if you wanted to kiss me,” he says earnestly. “I wasn’t going to just go for it this time. I’m sorry if—”
“I was the one who was going for it,” I say bitterly.
He cocks his head. “Then why—”
“There’s a risk of herpes, hepatitis B, syphilis, and HPV,” I blurt. “In general, a single kiss can deposit eighty million bacteria from one tongue to another, and after a kiss, our microbiomes—”
“I get it,” he says softly.
I blink dumbly. “You do?”
He shrugs. “That’s not inconsistent with the gloves and the pool water concerns.”
Right.
How could I forget?
I chew on my lip. “You must think I’m crazy.”
“Never.” His eyes drill into mine. “Believe it or not, I always run a risk assessment analysis before doing my stunts. Sometimes, I don’t take the chance because the risk feels too great, but usually, I go for it. Most people think I’m crazy because my risk tolerance is higher than theirs. It would be hypocritical of me to call you crazy for having a risk tolerance that skews in the other direction.”
I sigh. “Why can’t you be an asshole about this? You make me want to kiss you even more.”
His gaze darkens. “So you do want this? It’s just a matter of health concerns?”
I look down. “I think so. Maybe. I had a traumatic event in my childhood that started this whole business.”
“What happened?” The expression on his face is frightening when I look up. “Did someone do something to you?”
The question carries so much menace my blood chills—and that’s despite the fact that the rational side of me knows he’s furious with the hypothetical culprit of an event that never happened to me.
“No one hurt me,” I say quickly. “It was something else, something kind of silly.”
I tell him about The Zombie Tit Massacre, and as I do, the frightening expression turns into a compassionate one.
“Have you seen a therapist?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I did some research on my own. I don’t want a medical solution—which would be something like Zoloft—and the therapy would be the cognitive behavioral type, which is something I’ve been doing on my own.”
“Oh?”
He looks impressed, so I tell him about using porn as exposure therapy, and as I go on, a thoughtful and rather Machiavellian expression settles on his face.
I narrow my eyes. “What?”
“I was just thinking about the many things we can do without any fluid exchange.”
My breath catches. “What do you mean?”
A sexy smirk tilts his lips. “You can use me for some real-world exposure therapy.”
My ovarydrive kicks into high gear. “Use you?”
“If you don’t like how that sounds, you can think of it as me training you. You’ve done it for me, and I’d be glad to return the favor.”
I don’t know which is hotter—the idea of using him sexually or the idea of naughty training.
“When?” I gasp.
His nostrils flare. “Now?”
I moisten my suddenly dry lips. “How?”
“Any way you want to,” he murmurs. “I’m yours this evening.”
I have no words. A kaleidoscope of dirty images flits through my brain, and it’s a wonder I don’t have an orgasm here and now.
“Let me set up my room,” I say faintly.
He nods. “I await your instructions.”
Mind foggy, I climb out of the car and rush into my apartment.
No roommates cross my path. Good. I hope it stays this way when I bring Tigger in here. I don’t want to waste any time on introductions.
I don’t even know what I plan to do with him, but whatever it is, safety must come first, so I rummage in the hallway closet and locate some items we used when we repainted the walls in the living room.
Nearly tripping over the furniture in excitement, I run to my room and set everything up.
Is this really about to happen?
Worried that Tigger has changed his mind, I sprint back and find him waiting by the front door. He must’ve followed me.
I swallow hard and crook my finger seductively. “Come in.”
He steps in with feline grace.
As we head down the corridor, I notice that he’s stopped walking.
Oh, no. Is he getting cold feet?
I turn to find him staring uneasily at something near the door to Clarice’s room.
Fully expecting a giant spider, I follow his gaze.
A flat, furry face looks up at me.
This is Hannibal, the cat—a fluffy white Persian with blue eyes, and therefore not a creature you’d look at the way Tigger is doing.
“What’s up?” I mouth at Tigger.
“Nothing,” he says but stays put, eyes on the furball in his path.
“Are you allergic to cats?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“Then what?”
He rolls up his sleeve and shows me a faded scar on his forearm. “My cousin’s grandmother, the dowager duchess, was what you’d call a cat lady. I got this from one of her charges. Since then, I’m more of a dog person.”
I look from Tigger to Hannibal and back. “You’re afraid of cats?”
Could this mountain of muscles actually fear a ball of white fur?
What would he do if he knew the cat’s sinister-sounding name? Or if he met my sister Blue’s Machete—a truly scary cat that even normal people might want to stay away from?
A hint of color stains his high cheekbones. “Not afraid. This is purely a risk-assessment situation. I was in the hospital with an infection for a week the last time I got close to one of these.” He gives Hannibal a glare, and the cat glares back at him, tail twitching warningly.
I could swear Tigger pales slightly before breaking the staring contest.
Usually, it’s the princess who needs saving from a monster. Today, it’s the prince. I walk over to Clarice’s door and very softly open it. “Shoo.”
Pretending like this is what he wanted all along, Hannibal whooshes into the door crack, tail held high.
I close the door just as softly and look at Tigger. “Ready to go?”
“I’m not afraid of cats,” he mutters and follows me.
I pat his sleeve sympathetically. “One thing you might want to try is handling cat poop.”
“Why?” As he narrows his eyes at me, he reminds me of a beautiful cat—oh, the irony. Speaking of irony, was the nickname Tigger part of some ironic ribbing by his siblings?
“Cats carry a parasite that supposedly makes people like cats more. So, in your case, you might just feel neutral about them.”
“No, thanks,” he says.
“Yeah, maybe that’s for the best. A cat parasite is also said to lead to risky behavior, and you do enough of that.”
He sighs. “Can we please drop the cat subject?”
I feel like an ass. “I’ll never mention it again,” I say solemnly, and mean it. Given how understanding he is about my issues, it’s the least I can do.
Besides, I’m actually relieved that there’s something he fears. It means he doesn’t have Urbach-Wiethe and thus can’t pass it on to our hypothetical children.
Wait, children? Maybe start by kissing him first?
I open the door to my bedroom and gesture for him to get inside. He steps into the room, and his eyes widen.
“Sit here.” I point at the chair I prepared.
As he sits down, the thick plastic drop cloth on the chair makes a crinkly sound.
“Give me a second.” I pull on the suit I bought a while back in case I ever have to visit a hospital—which fortunately hasn’t happened yet.
It’s a full-body biohazard jumpsuit with a heavy-duty face mask, and it came in very handy during the painting project. Thanks to the mask, I was the only one of my roommates who wasn’t high on fumes.
Tigger surveys my suited-up self from head to toe, amusement glimmering in his eyes. “Am I about to get murdered?”
What is he talking about?
I examine myself in the mirror, then scan the room covered in heavy plastic, the duct tape I used to attach it all, and finally the mannequin in the corner.
Oh, crap.
He’s right.
My room looks like a serial killer’s lair.