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The sound of him clearing his throat cuts through my reverie. Heat sears my cheeks.
“Are you done?” His voice is like gravel.
“Almost.” I jump up to my feet, then raise the washcloth to pat at the cut on his forehead. This, of course, puts my face in front of his, my lips in front of his. Our noses almost bump. Our eyelids almost tangle. I’m aware of his gaze scalding me, but I don’t dare look at him. A cloud of heat spools off his big body and tightens around me. Sweat beads my upper lip. His breath singes my cheek, and I almost moan. It feels like I’m touching a predator that, at any moment, might open its mouth and consume me whole. And oh God, I'd like that so much. I swallow hard, then I incline my head to get a better angle; his nose brushes my neck.
Goosebumps sprout on my skin. He takes a deep breath and I freeze.
“Did you sniff me?" I whisper.
“Fucking roses.” His voice has dropped a few octaves. “Why do you always smell of roses?”
“M-my... body wash.”
He makes a strained noise at the back of his throat. Then, he slides his hand between us and adjusts himself.
“Are you... Are you... aroused?” I squeak.
“You’re standing between my legs with your tits pushed into my chest, and I can feel your bullet-shaped nipples straining to tear through your blouse and stabbing into my skin, so forgive me for not being very disciplined,” he growls.
“My boobs are not—” I glance down to find my ample bosom is, indeed, squashed against the planes of his chest. I was so caught up in cleaning his wound, I didn’t notice. Or maybe I did and didn’t pull back because I wanted to be a brat and provoke him into reacting. Maybe it’s because being able to provoke a reaction from him, knowing how affected he is by my nearness excites me even more?
I jump back and toss the washcloth into the sink. Then, snatch the antiseptic spray and hold it by his forehead with the nozzle pointed at the wound, my hand cupped around his eye to protect it from overspray. "Ready?"
When he doesn’t reply, I squeeze down on the nozzle. A hiss of air escapes from between his lips.
“Oh, my god, did that hurt? Should I blow on it and make it better?”
I rise up on my tiptoes to do that, and he snaps, “Don’t.” Then he clears his throat. “I mean, there’s no need to do that.”
The brat in me makes me say, “No, really, it’s okay. It’ll make it better.” I blow on his forehead, then do it again.
He stays perfectly still. Doesn’t make a sound. I look down to find his gaze is fixed on my cleavage. A nerve pops at his temple. His fingers are curled into fists at his side. The tendons on his throat stand out in relief. A chuckle wells up, but I manage not to laugh. It feels good to hold the power, for once.
“Are. You. Done?” He bites out the words.
“Almost.” I lower back to my heels, then mop up the blood from the wounds on his side. With the blood wiped off, the wounds are not as deep as I’d anticipated. His chest planes ripple. He grunts, but there’s no other reaction from him.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "It’s okay if you want to groan or cry out. It won’t take away from your macho-ness."
I look up to find he’s watching me with an intense look in his blue eyes. The kind that makes me feel he’s gleaned all of my secrets.
"Is this your way of getting back at me because you weren’t happy with my answer about your paintings?" He arches an eyebrow.
"What? Of course not. I would never?—"
His lips quirk.
I scoff. "I walked into that one."
"You did," he agrees.
I set the antiseptic spray aside and grab a few bandages. I begin to dress the wound on his forehead, but he wraps his thick fingers around my wrist. “There’s no need for that.”
“It’s either that, or I take you to the emergency room.” I meet his gaze with a challenge in my eyes.
He searches my features, and one side of his mouth quirks. “Enjoying being in charge?”
“I have no idea what you're talking about.” I flutter my eyelashes at him.
