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Scotch watches me for a second before he flashes that cocky grin he wears so often. “Yep. You haven't succeeded in getting rid of me yet.”
“Damn,” I mutter and close my eyes. Carefully, I breathe. Because it hurts like hell to move anything south of my chin.
“How are you feeling?”
I swallow the grit in my mouth. My voice is as hoarse as if I am a hundred years old. “Tired. Thirsty.”
When I open my heavy lids again, I see fatigue and worry in his somber expression. “You’ll feel a little better with every hour that passes.”
I raise a brow in question at him. “Really? Because I think you’re overstating.”
In that sultry voice of his, he speaks slowly. With meaning. Two words. “Trust me.”
Oh. God.
I don’t want to.
Not him.
But I can’t really deny that I do. Because I am here, all thanks to him sticking his fingers inside the bullet wound to staunch the life that was pouring out of me all over the back floor of that car.
In some part of my brain, way back behind my defenses, I know I’m forever bound to the man for that.
Forever.
As Prince’s song said… “that’s a mighty long time.”
We hold eyes for a few seconds before his grin softens into a warm smile.
Mother of God. Does he have to look like that?
All five o’clock shadow, square strong jaw, and dark, devouring eyes. How can the man look so good after going through hell?
Oh, wait. I’m the one who went through hell.
I let out a painful huff. “What are you smiling about?”
Scotch, AKA Jameson Scott, M.D., shakes his head once. “All of those emotions that just went across your face ended with one that looks a lot like admission.”
I bristle. God, he’s annoying.
In my croaky voice, I ask, “And what would I be admitting?”
He almost looks… pleased. “That you do trust me.”
I shift in the bed, which makes me wince and suck in a sharp breath. Just the slightest attempt to move upward on the pillow and I’m shaking with pain. Scotch is on his feet, instantly. Standing to his full, imposing height. “Don’t. Let me help.”
Sliding one of his gigantic paws under my other arm, he easily lifts me higher on the pillow. His hand curves along the bare skin of my chest thanks to the floppy hospital gown.
Electrical zingers shoot out from the place where his hand is against me.
He makes a sound of approval deep in his chest. “There. Try not to lift yourself.” His breath stirs my hair and sends a blistering awareness down my neck.
I nod because my voice is now gone. GONE.
When I expect him to move back, he reaches up and sets the back of his hand against my forehead.
My heart thuds as he just holds it there. Then he slides his fingers into my hair. A move so clinical, yet so intimate, that there’s a thundering race going on inside my chest.
