“My name is Bella. Not baby.”
His grin widens. “Short for Isabella? Got you a sparkly boy at home?”
I groan, sick of those kinds of jokes. “Way to be original. It’s short for Belladonna.”
His smile falters. “As in the pretty but toxic plant?”
This time, I wink. “Belladonn
a, as in the Atropa belladonna or the deadly nightshade,” I elaborate.
I sit down and start working my way through the process of cleaning his wound. Am I imagining I’m in front of my late grandfather instead of him? Definitely. It’s working too, because my hands are steady and I’m really disgusted to be this close to the money shot.
“You can move your hand up a little higher,” he says, causing me to lift my eyes and shattering that whole grandfather illusion I had going on.
That damn cocky smirk of his is only boiling my blood—in numerous ways. But I continue to remain the picture of composure. Okay, that’s a lie, but I attempt it.
“Gee,” I say dryly, “use that line often?”
Using the gauze, I press down on the wound harder than necessary, but he doesn’t so much as flinch. Talk about pain tolerance.
“Usually when a girl has me out of my boxers, we’re past the point of me using any lines.”
He stares at me, biting down on his lower lip, and I swear he looks even smugger. What an ass—Hold up. What did he just say?
“Why did you take your boxers off?” I hiss, looking around like someone might see us even though we’re shielded in the private exam room.
My eyes dart back to his leg as I work quicker, needing him out of here.
“They said to strip and put on the gown. I was just obeying orders. I’m a good boy like that.”
Good boy my ass. He reeks of sex and trouble. He’s exactly my type—the type I hate myself for wanting. The type that comes with a warning label: Don’t trust me. I will slice your heart to pieces and sell it to the highest bidder.
Why is this an issue for me? Hell if I know. Everyone has their vices. Meet mine.
He needs to go.
He leans back, and my eyes inadvertently follow the motion. But I’m sucking in a breath and almost falling off my stool when I see what’s right in front of my face.
Fully erect, ungodly sized, and mouthwateringly decorated... From base to tip, there are numerous barbells sticking through his cock, torturing me with all things bad for my health.
Did I just whimper? Yes. Yes I did.
“It’s called a Jacob’s ladder,” he says, still sounding smug and not giving a damn that his dick is right in my face.
What am I supposed to be doing? Why am I between his legs?
I curse myself when I realize I’m licking my lips, and I dart my eyes back to his leg, resuming the task at hand.
“Must be a bitch to walk through a metal detector,” I retort, trying not to act as affected, breathless, and damn tempted as I am.
He laughs a throaty, raw laugh that has my toes trying to curl. He shouldn’t be able to even laugh sexy.
“Just let me know when you want to learn to climb a ladder, Belladonna. I’ll be glad to teach you.”
My face heats again, and I try very hard to remember once again that I’m supposed to be getting him and his Jacob’s ladder out of here.
“I’m guessing you do use that line a lot,” I mumble, eliciting another sexy chuckle from the jerk who refuses to pull down his gown.