Instant Gratification

have to clean the wounds,” she repeated. “All of them.”
Oh, Christ. Dr. Barbie? Try Dr. Evil. She wasn’t backing down, and rather than suffer the in

h, Christ. Dr. Barbie? Try Dr. Evil. She wasn’t backing down, and rather than suffer the indignity of letting her—or even worse, TJ—take down his shorts, he did it himself, and then lay there buck ass naked with his eyes closed. “I feel so cheap,” he muttered. “You didn’t even buy me dinner first.”

TJ looked up at Emma. “So what do you think, Doc? Four stitches? Five? Twenty?”
“Oh, God,” Stone muttered, sweating profusely.
“Maybe we should just amputate at the neck, what do you think?” his soon-to-be dead brother asked with a crooked grin. “I could sit on him for you.”

Emma’s baby blues met his. “If you’re good, I’ll”—she paused to move the goddamn needle around—in his head!—“give you a sticker when we’re done here.”
TJ snickered.
Yeah. His brother was going to have to die.

didn’t hurt that she was five-foot-seven-ish, curvy, an auburn-haired beauty who looked like Barbie’s mean sister.
Dr. Barbie.

Everything Stone did was slow and sexy. Slow and sexy, slow and easy, and so laid-back she’d often thought he needed to be checked for a pulse.