Page 19 of Carnal Urges

I have no clean underwear.

I don’t know why that’s the first thought that floats into my consciousness, but it is. I breathe through a moment of pure anger at Declan. No clothes, no cell phone, no toiletries, no birth control pills—

Oh, shit. Without my pills, I’ll start my period any minute. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to ruin this skirt by getting blood all over it. It’s rumpled and wrinkled, but nothing that can’t be fixed.

I need a change of clothes.

Heading out of the bathroom, I find another door that leads to a walk-in closet. Lights blink on in here, too. The closet is filled with identical black suits hanging in a row, along with a row of identical white dress shirts. A few pairs of black jeans complete his entire wardrobe.

Opening a drawer in the square wood dresser in the middle of the room, I find perfectly folded white undershirts. Another drawer reveals perfectly folded cotton briefs, both black and white. In a third, I find black T-shirts, also folded like they’re on display for sale in a store.

It appears Declan is a bit anal retentive about his clothing.

Which is fantastic considering I’ll soon be bleeding all over it.

I strip out of my skirt, shirt, jacket, and panties, and step intoa pair of white briefs. They’re too big and fit like a diaper, but who cares. Next I pull one of the white dress shirts off its hanger. It drapes halfway down my thighs when I put it on. I roll up the sleeves and am just pushing the last button through its hole near the hem when a voice speaks from behind me.

“What are you doing?”

I resist the instinct to whirl around in surprise. Instead, I pause for a moment, then look over my shoulder.

Wearing one of his collection of identical black suits, Declan leans against the doorframe. His big arms are folded over his chest. His expression is guarded. His beautiful eyes are endlessly blue.

“I know your memory isn’t so sharp because you’re a senior citizen, so I’ll remind you that I’m not talking to you.”

He holds my gaze just long enough to make my heart skip a beat before he answers. “And I’ll remind you that you’re not in charge here.”

Aren’t I?

He must see the thought pass through my head, because his expression darkens. Unfolding his arms, he steps toward me.

I don’t move as he approaches. I won’t give him the satisfaction.

He stops a foot away, so close I can smell him. So close I can see that he hasn’t shaved, and that his eyes are bloodshot, and that he’s exhausted.

In a husky voice, he says, “No, you’re not.”

We stand like that for a moment, just looking at each other, until he grasps my shoulder and turns me to face him. His eyes take a road trip down my figure, lingering on my painted toenails, sweeping up my legs, snagging on the hem of his dress shirt where it meets my bare thighs.

He moistens his lips.

My heart skips another beat. Then another.

“You’re wearing my shirt.”

It’s a statement, not a question, so I decide it doesn’t require an answer.

After a crackling pause, he lifts a hand and takes the hem between two fingers. He rubs the material thoughtfully, a muscle sliding in his jaw.

Somebody turned up the temperature again. My hands are sweaty, so are my armpits, and the flush creeping over my cheeks makes them burn.

His voice an octave lower, he says, “What do you have on beneath?”

Breathe. Stay cool. He’s just trying to intimidate you.“Your briefs.”

“You’re wearing my underwear?”

His gaze flashes up to mine. I never knew blue eyes could burn so hotly, but they do.