Can't Touch This (Can't Touch This #1)

I stiffened. “What choice?”

She took a sensual step toward me. “One, I help you out with your problem.” Her finger lashed out and drew a line down the length of my dick. “Or two, you keep being a selfless saviour and point me in the direction of your canine friend so I can help him or her.”

I shuddered as I released my hold, pushing her away a little. “I’m not a saint, Vesper Fairfax, and if you touch me again, I’m going to put myself first. But…if you keep your distance, I can manage—just barely—to let you give your Mother Theresa routine to someone much more deserving of your help than me.”

She smiled, the sexual teasing faded, but her eyes spoke of deep affection and respect. “Ryder, I couldn’t think of anyone more deserving than you in this current moment.” Tucking a stray curl behind her ear, she smiled. “However, you’re right. Let’s cure the patient and then we can cure ourselves.”

I laughed loudly, feeling the stress of the past few hours trickle off me. I would never tell her how horrifying the fight pit had been when I’d helped the council round up dogs who were scared shitless and bloody from fighting for assholes’ pleasure. I would never speak of the wire muzzles, barbed wire chains, or filthy cages.

She didn’t need to know.

I wanted the images gone so I could get past it and be happy. At least the dogs were safe now and on their way to better lives.

But I did show her my earlier purchase. After all, she’d shown me hers. As we cut from the foyer into the kitchen, I grabbed the paper bag on the temporary wooden counter. “You’re not the only one who’s prepared this time. I bought two boxes. Extra large.” I winked. “And ribbed for her pleasure.”

“The ribs have nothing to do with it.”

“Oh?”

She grinned. “It’s all on the man. No pressure or anything.”

“Believe me, I’m feeling the pressure.” I tossed the box back onto the tabletop and guided her into the lounge where the overhead chandelier with sixteen light bulbs and glittering glass crystals illuminated a dog snapping and pulling at the tight collar and leash tethering him to a heavy rosewood snooker table in the middle of the space.

Dust sheets covered furniture that I wanted to preserve, while paint-splattered old couches—that I wasn’t precious about—littered the large room for the tradesmen to kick back while eating lunch. The floor was dusty, the chandelier full of cobwebs. The only thing finished in here was the north wall with the most incredible marble fireplace that I’d painstakingly cleaned and restored.

But Vesper didn’t care about any of it. Not the old-world glitz or the modern run down mess. She only had eyes for the growling Pusky Bull currently cowering with his tail tucked, ears flat, and teeth bared.

The shelter had informed me this breed was a Pitt-Bull crossed with a Husky. It was a favoured fighter dog for its vicious bite and endless stamina. Its ice blue eyes were entirely too wolf like as he tracked us as if we were a roast beef buffet.

Vesper switched into vet mode. “Hey, little guy.”

I snorted. “Hardly little.”

She ignored me, sitting on her heels as she put her hand out. I squatted behind her, fighting the instinct to snatch back her hand and bring it to safety. “Careful, Ves.”

“I know. But he needs to smell me if I have any chance of helping him.” Turning her gaze on me, she added, “I forgot my medical bag. I swung by work to grab a few things. Do you mind? It’s in the backseat of my car.”

“Do I mind? Shit, woman. Of course, I don’t mind.” Stroking the back of her head in utmost gratitude, I stood and backed slowly away as the Pusky Bull snarled. “Just be careful. He’s not in a good space.”

“I will.”

Dashing back to her car, I grabbed the bag—surprised at how heavy it was—and ran back inside.

I expected Vesper to still be in a standoff with the black and white snarling death machine, but I walked in to a miracle. The growling had stopped. The teeth were still bared, but the ears were working as radar, listening to her voice as she murmured kind comforting things; his nose twitched, sniffing her from a distance.

“Wow, you charmed him pretty fast.”

She didn’t look up, keeping eye contact with the glacial blue irises of the fighter. “It’s a matter of changing your intentions inside.” Her voice remained soft and soothing. “They can sense so much of what we don’t say. To him, our nervous energy at wanting to save him puts him on edge. I calmed myself—sending an internal message that all I want to do is hang out. He relaxed instantly.”

Carefully placing her bag on the floor, I sat on my haunches beside her. “Well, it worked.”

Shuffling forward in an awkward frog-leg kinda walk, Vesper kept her hand out and body language calm. “What did they do to you, Scar?”

“Scar?”

She pointed at the crisscross wounds all over his body.

Scar was apt.