Building a Bad Boy. Colleen Collins

He released a huff of breath. “Sorry.”

      “For what?”

      “Cussing.”

      She blinked. “Everybody cusses sometime.”

      “I try not to. Made a point to watch my language when helping raise my three kid sisters. Role model and all that.” He pressed his thumb against his lower lip. “What are you doing here?”

      “I wanted to check up on you.”

      “I’m naked.”

      Her eyes dipped. “Not quite. You’re wearing…”

      Kimberly couldn’t stop staring at the bulging black briefs that seemed stretched to the max over his member. Just like that black leather Speedo number he wore in those Crusher ads. She glanced at his oversize feet. So what they said was true….

      She tried to look back at his face, but there was a lot of body to cover on the way. Prominent thigh muscles. Ridged tummy. A sun-kissed torso underneath swirls of thick, black chest hair.

      She thought back to their initial meeting yesterday in her office when she’d wondered if the former wrestler still shaved his chest. She could put that question to rest.

      She glanced at his head, hard and pink under the lights. “Your head…”

      “What about it?”

      “Do we have to go the Yul Brynner route?”

      “Yul who?”

      “The King and I?” As soon as she said it, she imagined herself in a satin gown, dancing in the arms of the King of Siam who, in this particular fantasy, looked like Nigel. Although Nigel would never resort to the charming bullheadedness of the King. This guy is hopelessly sincere, and from what he mentioned about helping raise three kid sisters, dedicated. She wasn’t sure whether to be amused or amazed at this mass of man who had a body like The Rock and the heart of E.T.

      Those baby blues had a confused look and she realized he still didn’t get the Yul Brynner movie reference. “I think you should grow out your hair,” she said, gesturing limply toward his fleshy dome. “Women like to run their fingers through a man’s locks.”

      Nigel gave the dome a shake. “I can do the clothes, even try on a new name, but the head stays as is.”

      “Why?”

      “Because I like it. No muss, no fuss.”

      “But women like to run their fingers—”

      “Over my shiny bald scalp. After wrestling matches, I can’t tell you how many fingers skimmed and rubbed and tickled the surface. Old women, young women, kids. Here, you do it.” He leaned down, holding his head inches from her.

      “This is ridiculous,” she managed to say despite her pulse leaping into her throat.

      “Feel it.”

      “I can see it.”

      “Feel.”

      “If you had so many fingers feeling you—I mean, your head—why didn’t you just hook up with…” It really wasn’t any of her business why he hadn’t latched on to one of the finger-feeling woman back in his Phantom days.

      He glanced up, and something in his expression gave her heart a squeeze.

      “Just ’cause they wanted to cop a feel didn’t mean they wanted to know the real me.”

      She blinked, thinking how many women had complained about the exact same thing. Men just wanted them for their bodies, not their minds and heart. “You know, that’s what a lot of women say about men.”

      He shrugged. “It’s a curse and a blessing being a sensitive man.”

      She was wondering about the blessing part when he dropped his head, waiting for her to feel.

      “Oh, no, that’s all right—”

      “I insist. Because afterward, you’ll never ask me to grow my hair again.”

      “Okay,” she whispered, reaching toward his scalp. She became aware of his scent—a citrusy aftershave. And she tried not to be overly aware that this mountain of a man, dressed in nothing but black stretchy briefs, was bending over in what looked like a bowing position.

      For a moment, she felt like Anna taming the King of Siam.

      And then her fingertips brushed lightly over his scalp, the connection warm, solid. She gasped and withdrew her fingers.

      “No, touch me,” Nigel insisted.

      “I did,” she said shakily.

      He straightened a little, his blue eyes firing her a look. “That wasn’t a touch.” He gently took her hand and, bending down a little, placed it full on his bare scalp.

      Her heart raced like a schoolgirl’s as her palm pressed against his head, her fingers resting on smooth skin over hard skull. Back here, tucked away in a curtained room, pressing flesh to flesh, she suddenly felt as though they were doing something secretive, forbidden.

      “It feels so…” She breathed in and out, her chest rising with the effort. “…silky, yet hard.” She swallowed back a nervous sound, realizing how what she’d just said must sound.

      Nigel still held her hand, his grip confident, warm. “Run your fingers over the surface,” he said in a low voice that rumbled from deep within the mountain.

      For a split second, she thought about lying and saying, oh, no, no, she’d felt enough, thank you. But in that blip of time, he started to guide her hand slowly, trailing her fingers in lazy paths over the sleek, pink dome.

      “See?” he said, his voice low and husky. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

      She murmured something in the affirmative, not trusting herself to form coherent words. The pounding of her heart had escalated to a pagan beat, pulsing loudly over the piped-in music.

      Nigel straightened, slowly, causing her hand to slide ever so gently off his bare head and drift down the side of his face. Her fingers touched the bristle of his unshaven face.

      As he straightened to his full height, her hand slid to his chest. She paused on the thick carpet of chest hair, feeling his heat through her fingertips.

      After several long moments, as though awakening from a dream, she slowly withdrew her hand and stepped back through the curtain, her last image being the big, nearly naked man whose simmering blue eyes looked at her as though he’d discovered far more than she had in that sensual interlude.