At the sound of a giggle and a masculine voice, I jump up and press one palm to my chest, feeling my heart beneath all those layers of skin and bone, beat at an intense tempo. My pulse forces its way into my ears, like a drum, taking me back to that day at the park.
When I hear his chuckle, my knees suddenly go weak, the deep cadence damn near knocking my legs out from under me.A fucking chuckle.I couldn’t remember the way that sounded even when I used to try so hard. To draw on happy memories. All that came up, all I could remember, was the pain. The hurt. I shouldn’t be here. My fingers find the desk, gripping it tightly to steady myself. Glancing at the ground, I stare at my black Hush Puppies, shifting my weight as I try to gain some composure.
Balling my fingers in tight, I straighten and walk from the office, past the suddenly quiet nurses who are following my every step towards his door. I stop on this side and lean on the wall, listening to the inaudible words coming from within.
Jade pulls the door open, and in her shock at finding me on the other side, she gasps.
“Fuck. Dr Adel. Sorry.” She laughs on an exhale. A light rouge paints her usually pale cheeks, provoking a frown from me that I can’t mask for the life of me.
“What has you so flushed?” I ask, smiling stiffly and folding my arms across my chest, quite aware of the bitch face I’m sporting and hating myself for it.
“The patient is awake.” She tries to fight her smile. “And he’s. . .” She giggles once. “In good spirits.”
Is he?I swallow hard. Jade’s smiling eyes are suddenly drawn back into the room. She gasps, moving quickly back inside. “You shouldn’t be up, Mr Butcher.”
Breath leaves me in a rush.
No.Don’t get up.
I shuffle backwards, taking little steady steps.
You shouldn’t be up, Bronson.
My heart is securely lodged in my throat as I turn and stride away, my spine aching from how stiff I feel. I hear heavy, meaningful footsteps quickly coming up behind me.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed!” Jade calls out, her voice following me down the hall, indicating his presence mere steps behind mine. As if I need that sign.
I’ve always felt his presence.
But he hates me.
Tensing to prepare for his anger, I jump when he slides his hand around my waist, stilling my stride. Gripping my opposite hip, he twists me, walking me backwards until I am pressed against the hospital wall and staring at the hard wall of his body.
I open my mouth to draw air in as it’s suddenly thick, and hard to find. His energy is so wild. It always was. Powerful. Unrestrained. Like a wildfire. Like Bronson Butcher. He’s hot and dangerous and hard to control.
Unable to acknowledge what is happening, I just try to steady my racing pulse for the sake of the onlookers. Two palms press against the wall on either side of my head while large, tattooed arms bar me within the cage of his body. What are you doing?
God, he’s gotten bigger.
More muscular.
And those tattoos. . . so many of them.
My mouth fills with saliva, and when I lick my lips, I hear the slightest growl rumble from deep in his chest.
And I hear. . .‘Do that again,’in my head.
I fight the urge to look up. I can see his chest moving fast and can hear his breaths expelling fiercely, so I know his eyes will be smouldering pits of green and blue.
For a moment, there is no one else but us. His breath is heavy. Mine frantic. Raising his hand, he runs his fingertips gently down the contours of my face, gliding each digit down my forehead, over the tip of my nose, to my mouth, where he drags the swell of my lower lip down so I can taste the salty skin on his fingers. I stifle a moan. It’s a gesture so familiar and melancholy, it’s painful.
I squeeze my eyes shut, holding them like that.
To the feel of him.
To the feel of those memories.
He doesn’t hate me?