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“And your arm?”
I’d forgotten about the cut I got last week from one of the thugs’ knives. He takes my hand and lifts my arm, checking it.
Adam gave me a bandage after I emerged from the Club like a sleepwalker, barely able to stand. Two days ago I got rid of it. It was too stained and loose to do anything anyway, and the wound wasn’t bleeding anymore, so...
My breath leaves in a rush as Raine’s fingertips run over the scabs carefully, the feather-light sensation raising goosebumps over my skin. “You should have gotten stitches. I bet it will scar.”
I shrug. What’s one more scar? Unless he hates scars, but then I’m screwed, as I’m covered in them, and… I want him to touch me again.
Or stop, before I do something stupid.
I don’t fucking know what I want.
His eyes bore into mine, blue, so blue they should be cold, but instead they’re hot, the hottest blue.
And I’m falling.
“Whoa.” His hand moves up to my shoulder, and he pushes me back to the wall, the heat turning to concern. Or so I tell myself. “Maybe I should give you a sponge bath.”
Um, what? My head is spinning. “I’m fine. Shower will be good.”
God, yeah, it will be damn good, to wash the filth of days off me. But he’s still pressed so close to me, the warmth of his body seeping into my chilled flesh, that I don’t wanna move.
Wash, or press my stinky self to the handsome guy who’ll probably lose his lunch if he has to smell my stench for a second longer?
Regretfully, I put a hand on his chest, pushing him away. Or trying to. He’s like this wall of muscle, and my arm is trembling. “About that shower…”
He blinks. “Right. Come on.”
Not missing a beat, he tugs me to his side and steers me toward the bathroom. There he proceeds to undress me, and I open my mouth to say that’s my job, that I can do it myself, but nothing comes out.
I’m struck speechless. How fucking awesome.
Strangely, I feel like a child. And it is strange because I don’t really remember my childhood, so how would I know, right?
But I somehow do. There’s something innocent about the gentle touches, the warmth, the strong hands supporting me, guiding me. Taking care of me. This elusive sense of safety I feel when I’m with him, that I honestly don’t remember ever feeling before, though I must have, once.
Probably.
Or maybe I’m just too exhausted. It’s as if I’m stoned out of my mind, listing there, hallucinating things.
He removes my boots and socks, then pulls off my tank top, and I lift my arms to aid him, hissing at the pull on my bruised ribs. He unzips and tugs down my pants and underwear, and I step out of them, all my attention on his face, his tousled dark hair, his hands on my legs.
He’s so focused on me. Can’t remember anyone touching me like this. And as his gaze slides up my naked body, despite the layer upon layer of pain and tiredness, despite the persistent sick feeling in my stomach, I feel heat rushing to my balls, pressure building at the base of my dick, and my chest gets tight.
His lips part, and red rises to his cheeks. God, he’s beautiful, kneeling at my feet, with those bright eyes, scruffy jaw and broad shoulders.
Then he gets up, starts stripping, and oh boy, forget about feeling like a child.
Innocent? Ha. I have to lean back against the Plexiglas of the shower for support, my knees weak for an entirely different reason this time, as he reaches behind his head and hauls off his T-shirt, baring those delicious pecs and abs, and then unzips his jeans.
My face is too hot, my head too light. I lean more heavily against the Plexiglas, hoping it will hold, because watching Raine taking off his clothes should be illegal. It’s a damn hazard to my health.
He pushes his pants and briefs down, and fuck, he’s hard, his cock rising up to hover before his muscled stomach.
I lick my lips. I wanna taste him. Kiss his dick. Lick it, suck it.
How can he make me want such things after the week I’ve had? The goddamn life I’ve had. Damn him.
