Nearly two weeks went by, and Nick took the time to think a bit more about Starr. About himself. About how many of his mornings coming off shift had been made a little lighter lately because of a woman with big brown eyes and a soft Texan drawl that echoed his own.

There were times when it was easy to feel good about her. Starr the sports fanatic, silly joker, the maker of killer enchiladas, the brilliant artist and not too bad a singer was definitely wonderful stuff.

Then the tiny nagging burr of doubt would snag his thoughts, that passing ‘yeah, but—‘ and Nick would find himself sighing. It wasn’t that he wasn’t attracted to her, no, that wasn’t it at all. Considering how often he’d studied the saucy curve of her ass, or the bounce of her bust, attraction wasn’t the issue—on that matter his body was Good to Go, big time.

Always it came back to his head. His mindset. The deep and fearful curiosity about . . . what lay between her slender hips.

He didn’t know. And he couldn’t ask. Starr said she was a girl, but in Nick’s experience, that was now covering a LOT of ground, and his traditional definition had been skewed eight ways to Sunday ever since the transgender case.

Starr called herself a scarred woman; Nick worried about what that meant. Scarred emotionally? Scarred physically? Both? He had a nightmare scenario of sliding a hand into her panties and getting a handful of something far too familiar--

And yet . . . he argued with himself, even then, Starr would still be—Starr.

For a fleeting moment, he felt an odd empathy for Francis Lavalle.

He pulled up at the duplex mid-afternoon on a Saturday, feeling the heat in a way he hadn’t lately. The temperature had shot up over the hundred degree mark, and the weatherman had indicated that there would be no relief any time soon. Nick hoped things would cool off after the sunset; he’d brought his DVD of Le Mans to share. Starr had a serious crush on Steve McQueen but had never seen the movie.

Nick climbed out, feeling his shirt sticking to his back. In the distance, the horizon shimmered, and although the reservoir cast a shadow, it wasn’t much of one. He heard music—ZZ Top’s LaGrange—coming faintly from Starr’s front door and grinned. He sauntered up and rang the bell; after a moment it opened, and Starr stood there smiling at him. “Hey Nick, come on out of the heat!”

Nick blinked, drinking in the sight of her leaning on the doorframe.

Starr’s hair was tied in two adorably messy ponytails, and she wore her usual shorts, but Nick couldn’t quite avoid staring at the pink tank top stretched tightly over her abundant chest. The logo beamed out at him: UFO Museum, Roswell, NM and right in the middle of it, a little green alien with the familiar black almond shaped eyes.

“Nice shirt—“ he managed with a straight face, following her inside. “Did you actually go there?”

“Oh sure did! Wally took me last year and we took photos. Completely a tourist trap, but life’s too short not to do a few cheesy things, right?” Starr told him as she danced a little in the foyer. Nick realized she had a yellow plastic bucket full of sponges at her bare feet and an impish look on her face. He shook his head.

“And here I thought you just wanted my DVD—Starr, no, we are NOT washing your car!”

She thrust her jaw out, and the determined gleam in her eyes both tickled and annoyed him. Starr could be amazingly stubborn, a fact Nick had learned the hard way, argument after argument.

“Oh come ON Nick—with two of us it won’t take any time at all—hell, we can even do your truck too if you want,” she wheedled, her shoulders still moving to the music. Nick parked his hands on his hips and prepared to hold his ground, but the move made his damp shirt shift against his spine and suddenly the appeal of a little cold water sounded like a good idea. Starr saw his hesitation and giggled; she picked up the bucket and crooked a finger at him, motioning with her head to the driveway. “Come on, Butch, we have cars to wash.”

“Lead on, Sundance, but after this you owe me big time. I’m a skilled scientist you know, not manual labor around here.”

“Riiiiiiiiight.”

Starr had an ancient Volvo in dark blue; a staid little car that she’d dressed up with zebra seat covers on the interior. Nick particularly liked her bumper sticker that read ‘Miskatonic University Alumni’. She filled the bucket up, letting the water froth up the soap she’d added, and then turned the hose onto the car, wetting it down. The minute the water hit the metal surfaces, a little crackle rolled out, and steam rose.

“Yeow!” Starr observed. From the other side of the car, Nick grinned, white teeth flashing out at her reaction.

“Better wait a minute before soaping it up, or it will bake right on.” He pointed out. She nodded, and let the water cascade over the hood and top of the car before suddenly dropping the hose with an annoyed snort. Nick laughed as he came around and caught the sight of the unrolled window.

“Damn it!” she hissed, yanking open the door and furiously spinning the handle. The seat was already wet, the zebra fur looking soggy. Starr used the edge of her hand to sweep the puddle of water off the seat and then wiped her fingers on her shorts. “Well THAT was stupid.”

“It’ll dry out quick if you leave the window just a little open when we’re done,” Nick assured her. He had already slopped one of the sponges into the foamy bucket and was sweeping it over the hood in long, efficient strokes. Starr closed the door and reached for the hose once again, spraying the back end of the car.

The smell of wet metal and rubber mingled with baking concrete and dry grass. Nick felt content; simple chores done easily just felt good. He scrubbed efficiently, not minding the job at all now.

At least, he didn’t mind until the stream of icy water gushed down on his head, arcing from the other side of the car. Nick sucked in a breath, shuddering at the unexpected chill drenching him and he spun, shouting, “Starr! You are SO going to pay for that!”

The only answer was a loud laugh and another spray of water. Nick growled and lunged for the hose length lying on the cement, yanking on it hard. A squeal and a thump told him he’d succeeded in pulling it out of her grip. Triumphantly he drew in the hose hand over hand until he had the freeflowing end in one fist. He stepped around the car . . .

And didn’t see her. Nick peered through the windows and noticed Starr had managed to scoot to the other side, keeping the Volvo between them.

“Nice try, Sundance, but I can still get you—“ he announced.

“Suuuuure you can.” Came her taunt. Nick pretended to aim up, then ducked and shot the stream under the car, wetting her feet. Starr squealed again. “Oh MAN that’s cold!”

“You ought to feel it on your head—like THIS!” Nick shouted, carefully bracing the hose on the top of the car and pressing his thumb over the end. The added pressure forced the water out in a powerful spray that Starr couldn’t duck; it doused her thoroughly and she spun around hissing and spluttering even through her giggles.

“Y-y-you have n-no sense of humor!” Starr accused hopping over to the bucket and fishing for a sponge. Nick grinned and leaned over the hood of the car.

“Hey, I’m laughing NOW,” he pointed out cheerfully. Starr heaved a sopping yellow square at him in retaliation but it missed, bouncing and falling to the driveway with a wet plop. Nick didn’t notice.

Point in fact, Nick wasn’t noticing anything beyond the sudden and shockingly hot sight of saturated pink cotton clinging in skin-tight fashion to Starr’s tits . . . Damn, tighter than skin-tight, emphasizing those big happy nipples rising up so stiff and perky . . .

“Yeah, w-well we still need to get the car finished,” she grumbled turning away. Nick blinked, feeling dry-mouthed and a little stunned; he grabbed the hose and backed up, trying to concentrate on the wheel rims while the image of Starr burned against his retinas for a moment longer.

All woman, no damn question there, not when his palms tingled to feel the weight of those beauties resting in them—

“Nick?”

“Huh?” he turned, wide-eyed, but Starr was nowhere in sight, and he realized she was bent over, scrubbing the back bumper. Her voice came out again, amused.

“Can you get me the scrubbing brush from the bucket?”

“Oh. Yeah, hang on—“ he turned and fumbled, fishing into the soap water and pulling the plastic brush out. Carefully he walked around to the back of the car, steeling himself for the sight of Starr, but it still hit him in a wave of lust.

Starr, low on her haunches, rubbing the sponge along the license plate, the vigorous circular movements making her chest bounce with every stroke, and the water sparkling in diamond drops in her hair—she looked up at him, and her eyebrows jumped a little. Nick knew in that moment that she’d spotted his erection.

He blushed.

She blushed.

For a moment they simply looked at each other, and the new awareness moved between them, sweet and awkward, as if another layer had been peeled away leaving them each a little more vulnerable.

Nick turned quickly, knowing it was too late but determined to press on. He fished for the sponge still resting on the hood, drawing it over the windows, and along the rear view mirror, smearing soap in bubbly trails with every swipe.

A bee zipped by; he ducked instinctively and waved a hand. The bee circled again, and Nick peeled off his soggy shirt, using it to shoo the insect away. “Beat it!”

“What?”

“Nothing. Stupid bee, that’s all,” he replied shortly. Behind him he heard a gasp. Nick looked over his shoulder to see Starr staring at him as she squeezed the scrubbing brush in her hands. The fresh glimpse at her semi-transparent tee shirt did nothing to calm him down, and Nick grimaced a little while keeping his hips turned. “What?”

“Oh my God. Oh my God you have the most beautiful definition I’ve ever SEEN, Nick Stokes. Oh my GOD—your rectis abdominae are gorgeous, honey!” she squealed, her ponytails bouncing. “Perfect deltoids, you’ve got textbook obliques—turn around, turn around!” She ordered happily. Startled, Nick looked down at himself, vaguely aware she was going on about his muscles and amused as hell about it. He turned obligingly and Starr yelped again.

“Damn it, your deltoids are just as perfect from the back and your lattisimus dorsi would make an anatomist weep, baby.”

“Starr---“ Nick protested, blushing all over again. Sure he kept himself fit and worked out, but from the sounds Starr was making—

“I KNEW you had nice glutes, but all the rest of it was only a guess. Oh Butch, you HAVE to let me draw you. I’ll do ANYTHING to get you on paper!” she breathed, looking at him as if he was a cherry chocolate cheesecake.

Nick began to shake his head. “NO—come on Starr, I’m no model, I’m a CSI, okay? Drawing my foot is one thing—“ He didn’t get to finish because right then Starr yelped and tried to reach behind her. The move made her breasts all the more enticing, but Nick realized she was in pain.

“Damn it, it’s stinging! Nick—“ she appealed to him and he moved around her to see the bee struggling against the wet cotton between Starr’s shoulder blades. He flicked it away and stepped on it firmly. Starr whimpered a little, still trying to touch the sting; Nick grabbed her elbow, feeling a little better. This was something he could do.

“Come on, Sundance—kitchen. Let’s see if you’ve got any baking soda.”

Meekly she allowed him to steer her inside and they did an awkward dance around the breakfast counter. “Middle shelf by the fridge—“ Star mumbled. Nick found it and pulled the box down.

“You’re not allergic, are you?”

“No, just irritated,” she replied with a gulp. Nick grinned and turned on the faucet, rewetting his fingers before he scooped them into the box of baking soda. Then, he hesitated.

“Um . . . “ he began awkwardly. Starr, who had her back to him, looked over her shoulder. She caught his expression and understood; carefully she reached for the hem of her wet shirt and began to peel it up. Nick tried not to look, but hormones won out, and he watched as inch by inch her shirt rose up to reveal her long bare spine. The little knobs were well-defined, and the blades wide; the sting was a small white spot about the size of a quarter between them.

Starr pulled her shirt off over her head and held it protectively against her chest as she waited.

Nick dabbed, gently. He smeared the mushy baking soda onto the sting in little dabs, trying not to press too hard, and fighting back the knowledge that Starr had no shirt on.

That she was standing here in the kitchen, topless.

That he was shirtless too.

So they were both half-naked in the kitchen, within a few inches of each other.

Suddenly Nick felt as if his skin was too tight, and that seething just under it was a drive stronger than he’d realized. Starr was so slender that he could see her ribs; the rounded curve of one breast peeked out on the side. He kept dabbing.

“Starr, I . . . think you ought to . . . put your shirt back on,” he told her in a monotone. She turned her head to look at him, and the sunlight filtering through the chili pepper curtains dappled her skin. She had freckles over her shoulders, and Nick knew he was only seconds from leaning over and kissing the base of her neck.

Her big brown eyes shone with rich heat, and for a moment her chin trembled.

“Nick . . .” she breathed, and the WAY she said it, soft and hungry undid any good intentions he had left. Nick sighed harshly and bent forward, mouth pressing to the delicate skin on the side of her throat, kissing and feeling her rapid pulse there.

And then it felt as if his entire world went in and out of focus, as if time had paused. Nick slipped his arms around her waist, his mouth still on her skin. Starr moaned, low and sweet; a sound that stiffened his nipples and dick instantly. Nick kept kissing. Starr tasted like cotton candy with nutmeg, sweet with a little spice and he wanted more of it, a LOT more. His chest pressed to her spine, and the touch of bare skin between them felt so damned good.

Starr leaned back against him, gasping when he nuzzled up under her ear, nosing around the ponytail to do so. Squirming, she turned in his arms, the wet teeshirt still clutched against her chest, and now it was squeezed between them, warming to the double body heat, a thin damp barrier doing nothing at all. Starr’s eyes were half-closed, and Nick leaned forward to close the gap between his mouth and hers, slowly pressing his lips onto the softest kiss he was capable of.

It didn’t stay soft. Starr’s hands slid to cup the back of his neck, and Nick growled a little, pleasure sparking in hot little throbs all through him. His grip around her tightened, his arms gliding up behind her back, cupping her bare shoulder blades to pull her closer and just as he did, her tongue glided along the opening seam of his lips. He eagerly parted them, deepening the kiss with reckless heady pleasure.

She, Nick thought and on slamming on the back of that, Mine.

And their kisses intensified; deep and sweet, hungry, building in a smooth synchronicity of passion between them. Starr kissed with her whole body, quivering in his arms, clinging, making little animal moans as her tongue danced with his. The press of her warm happy chest against his sent hot pulses down his stomach and Nick held her tightly, rocked into her hips, not caring anymore about anything but this moment . . .

“Starr? Your hose is running all over the side---whoah, ‘scuse ME,” came the startled tones of Wally as he shuffled in, registered the sight in the kitchen and made a clumsy about-face. “I’ll just go turn the water off—“ he slammed the door behind him as Nick and Starr jerked apart guiltily, each of them breathing hard. Starr was flushed and her chocolate eyes glittered in the afternoon light. She clutched the shirt against herself and gave a little shake, as if trying to break from the spell they’d been in just a moment before.

“I . . . better go change . . .” she mumbled in a soft, dazed voice. Nick stood there, trying to catch his breath, still feeling the tingle where his skin, his body had pressed against her. He ran a hand through his hair, at a loss for words. Starr moved past him, picking up speed, nearly running by the time she reached her bedroom. Nick heard the door slam, and he leaned on the counter, bracing his palms there and trying to figure out what to do next.