Chapter 4 HOT WOMEN FIRST

KENNETH'S POV

What is happening right now?

She enters the bathroom; I close the door behind her.

On my way to the kitchen, I spot her bedroom; the door is slightly ajar. Her pink satin robe is slung over the edge of the bed.

I picture myself sliding the silky fabric off her shoulders and exposing her bare breasts. I picture myself suckling on the tips until they're so hard, she cries out ecstasy.

But now is not the time, so I pull her bedroom door closed and make my way to the kettle. I pick a tea flavor, Earl Grey. It's the one she is almost out of, so I'm guessing she drinks it more often than the others.

I pour the tea into her large red mug and add a splash of the whiskey I found in one of the cabinets.

While I'm making the tea, I'm trying like hell not to think about her in the shower. I try to push away the image of drops of water traveling down the base of her neck and onto the slope of her breasts.

I try with everything that's in me not to think about those same drops of water dripping down the peaks of her pointed nipples and down her stomach. I can see them dissolving into the space between her thighs. I want to burst through that damn door, pin her against the wet shower wall, and have her a hundred different ways, until we damn near die from exhaustion.

The only thing stronger than the desire to have her is the need ensure she's really, truly okay.

"Thanks for staying," she says as she emerges from the shower a while later. Her hair is freshly towel dried, and she's wearing a large grey tee shirt that hangs just above her knees. She's barely showing any skin but she might as well be naked. It is having the same effect on my cock.

This is ridiculous. I need to make sure she's okay and then get the hell out of here before I lose it.

"And thank you for saving my life," she says softly.

"Well, there was another woman a block away that needed my help, but your ass is much nicer," I tease as I hand her the cup of tea.

"So you only rescue good-looking women?" she says as she starts to blow on the surface of the tea.

"NYPD policy. Hot women first," I reply, clearly teasing.

She smiles but it quickly fades. She's thinking again. Not good.

"You have to stop that," I reply as I take her over to the sofa.

"Stop what?"

"Overthinking. You had a bad night. It's over," I assure her.

"I'm over the initial shock, it's just...if this were it, if it was really the end, what would that look like for me? My life is...my last act on Earth would be running from my ex and into a dumpster. Not actually a hero's story," she says.

"Are you sure you don't want me to call anyone for you?" I ask.

I brought up contacting family hours earlier, but she didn't want her sister to worry. And she knew her parents would come and make a big deal out of everything. She didn't want that.

"No, Mel is a worrier, and I don't want to give her a reason to lose her mind."

"Okay, I get that. Come here," I reply. I'm not sure how she'll react but I take a chance and put my arms around her shoulders.

She leans into me and places her head on my chest. It feels way better than it should. I look down at her; she's studying the poster of the bird in flight on the wall across from us.

"You have a thing for birds-is that part of your day job? You study birds?"

"No. I run an outreach program for foster kids. It's based in a community center not far from here," she says, and she goes on to tell me about her program and how being a foster kid until the age of ten affected her. She stops in the middle of her story.

"Go on. What happened after the Berrys took you in? Were they good to you? Was it easy to fit in? Did you make friends quickly or was it hard?" I ask.

She looks up at me, shocked that I have follow-up questions. She continues her story.

When she's done, I look over at the drawing of the bird in flight. "You grew up in foster care. The love of birds makes sense," I conclude.

"What do you mean? I like birds because they are colorful, amazing flyers, and fun to watch."

"Um...okay."

"You think there's another reason?"

"I do."

"I'm listening," she says.

"Birds have internal navigation. No matter where they are, they can find their way back home. If I were a foster kid, I'd spend my life trying to find home too."

"Are you trying to say that I'm some lost damaged chick?" she says, sitting up, suddenly hostile.

"No, Adeline , I'm not. I'm saying, no matter how far or how fast a bird can fly, sooner or later, it has to find a place to land..."