Within half an inch of hislips.
It’s ridiculous that I want to sigh.
Oh dear God, I was humping his leg. I forgot.
“I’m just gonna go home–”
“Keep still,” he murmurs. Reaching out for a large plastic kit beside the bed, he brings it to the mattress beside my thighs and flips the top open. “You didn’t tear them open. Just tugged a little. I’ll clean them up and redress.” His eyes come to mine with a strange intensity. “I’ll add some antibiotic ointment, but you’ve gotta be more careful. You make me worry for you.” He shakes his head seriously. “I don’t even fuckin’ know you. I have no room in my life for a weakness like that. I met you twenty-four hours ago, and you have a tendency to end up in compromising situations with dangerous men–”
“Lance was–”
“I’m talking about me, too! You’re at my mercy right now, under my hands, in my bed. My cock is thrumming because you’re horny, and my leg is glistening with something I wouldn’t mind getting a closer look at. You’re lucky I didn’t fuck you already. Not like I didn’t have the chance.”
“You can’t just fuc–”
“Wanna bet?” His eyes snap to mine. “I could’ve done it already; with your permission – let’s face it, you were asking for it five minutes ago – or without. I’m bigger than you, have plenty of cable ties and duct tape, and my neighbors don’t give a fuck if women scream. You put a ton of trust in a stranger last night. A dangerous stranger.” His thick brow quirks in dare. “You expecting to live long? Because if not, I’d like to fuck you first. I bet you’d feel good.”
Shocked, embarrassed, still-fucking-horny, I turn away and hide my flaming face as he takes out a bottle of clear gel and squeezes it into his hands. I wrinkle my nose at the repugnant scent of alcohol disinfectant as he rips open the small packet that almost reminds me of a condom. Pulling out the small wet wipe, he slides it along my skin and I jump – both because of the cold, but mostly because of the searing pain that slides through my stomach.
“I’m sorry,” he rumbles. His warm breath contrasts with the cold the wipe left behind, creating tingles that soldier beneath my skin. “Your stitches are fine. You tugged them a little, but nothing tore. The pink from last night seems to be receding, so I think I poured enough peroxide to clear any infection.” His dangerous eyes come up to mine. “The pain was worth it. You’re welcome.” Going back to work, he finds a tube in his kit and slides the clear gel over my sort-of-painfulandsort-of-numb wound. “You were out of it last night; do you remember my instructions?”
I close my eyes and enjoy the glide of his rough hands over my sensitive skin. It makes me think of a couple making love, which is ridiculous, since men like Kane Bishop don’t make love.
“You said to keep them dry. To shower and bend weird. That they’ll dissolve.”
“Yeah.” He goes back to his kit to take out a bandage. Peeling the plastic from the dull brown covering, he bites his bottom lip and studies my ribs carefully. “Take my peroxide. And the antibiotic gel, too. You shouldn’t need the peroxide, but when in doubt, pour the fucker in and save your own life. The gel…” He shrugs. “I dunno. I’m not a doctor. But maybe put it on twice a day? Get new bandages. Redress the wound each time you do the gel. Should only be a couple days and you’ll be in the clear.”
“How do you know this stuff?”
“Knife wounds?” His eyes come back to mine. “That shit you saw two nights ago, that once in a lifetime shit? Happens five nights a week for me. Sometimes I win. Sometimes I don’t. Every time I get cut, I add ink to cover it up.” My eyes snap to his tattoo covered chest. There’s a lot of ink. “I’ve been tempted to just drink the damn peroxide, sometimes it’s that bad.” He presses the bandage over my ribs with precision. So careful, I barely feel it.
Sitting up and somehow letting all my teenage insecurities go, I fold my legs the way we do in elementary school and let my stomach rolls hang over the waistband of not new, not fancy panties. Narrowing my eyes, I study the lines of script scattered all over his body. “That’s a lot of ink.” My eyes flick between his broad chest and his dark eyes. “You’ve been hurt a lot?”
He shrugs. “It’s my job. I don’t sit in a cushy office all day. Someone’s gotta be the garbage man.”
“Garbage man?” I narrow my eyes. “What’s your job?”
Playfully, he nods to the couch almost butting against his bed. “I think you know my job. I think you know plenty about me.”
I follow his gaze and stop on the pile of manila folders. Pursing my lips, since there’s no point jumping up and freaking out, I bring my gaze back to his. “You’ve been looking through my work? That’s confidential information, Bishop. You could get in a lot of trouble for reading that.”
“A lot of trouble,” he scoffs. “It’s about me. About men I know. It’s only confidential for everyone else. Why are you taking reports about me home for the night, Jess? Is that how you have your wet dreams? Have I slept with you more than I know?”
He’s trying to be crass. He’s trying to annoy me. But the pulse still jumps in my throat. His eyes drop to my core – covered only by a miniscule scrap of lace – and his tongue darts out to moisten his bottom lip.
Good lord. Take my ability to practice law away now, because I wanna fuck the man I know to be a criminal. The man Jules assigned to me to keep an eye on.
“Jess?” He waits for my eyes to come back to his. “You’re thinking about fuckin’ me, aren’t you?”
“No! I don’t have time for dating.”
He scoffs. “I never mentioned dating. Fuck that. A man dates a woman, means he cares. Means he has a chink in his armor. I have no room for broken armor.” He slides his tempting tongue along his bottom lip and almost turns me into a whimpering mess. “But fucking is something else entirely. I fuck women all the time. There’s no connection there, thus, no weakness. Wanna fuck, Jess?”
Yes.
“No!” I turn away to escape his glare before my panties turn to smoke and his boxers become breakfast. “I’m all better now. Thanks for looking after me.” Snatching the antibiotic ointment from his grasp, I throw my legs over the side of his bed. “I’m outties.”
“Wait.” Lurching forward, he grabs my bicep and halts my movements. Moving behind me the way he was behind Lance the other night, his silky boxers – and everything inside them – slide along my back until the oxygen clogs in my lungs. Calloused hands, gentler than they appear, come to my neck and brush my long hair back. He leans forward enough that I see his nose in my peripherals. I see his frown. “He cut your neck, too?” Moving closer to inspect, he breathes on my flesh and sends goosebumps rippling along my skin. “Jesus, you’re a fuckin’ menace to yourself, Jess. He cut your neck, but you didn’t say anything.”