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“God help me,” he mutters.
“Sorry.” I sigh heavily, bringing my cast up to my chest, the weight and blood flow uncomfortable.
“Where’s your sling?” he asks, noting my discomfort.
“I left it in the bathroom.”
“Here.” He stops us and slips his cigarette between his lips, pulling his T-shirt from around his neck, ripping it clean down the middle. I watch him, mesmerized, a cloud of smoke between us as he ties a few knots, a few loops, and slips it over my head, taking my arm and settling it in his makeshift sling. He nods, satisfied, and I reach for his mouth and pluck the cigarette from between his lips. His scowl is playful, but he lets me take a drag. Just one. He reclaims it, and I turn my head, blowing the smoke away from his face. His hand slips onto my neck and eases me toward him until our lips meet, his mouth opening, his tongue seeking entry.
He says he can’t have me, and yet he does this?
Dread drains from my body as my good arm hooks around his neck. So gentle. But so deep. I taste nicotine and pure, manly Brad. And I smell his clean sweat. I see his eyes open, looking at me as he kisses me. I feel his hardness against my lower belly, and the new, warm sensations gliding through my veins. “Shit,” he mumbles around my mouth. “I wish I could take you to bed.”
“You can.” I push myself closer to him, enticing him, and a deep, needy rumble vibrates at the back of his throat. On my back. Still. I can do that. I need that. Closeness. Escape for a short time before we face our reality. “Please,” I whisper, nibbling at his jaw.
He pulls back, scanning my face, his eyes hungry. Mine are matching, I’m sure. I can see the mental debate he’s having. The need, the resistance, the want, all fighting against each other.
Need wins.
He flicks away his cigarette and gently picks me up, carrying me back into the house, up the stairs, and into his room. He lays me down on the bed and scans me from head to toe. “How the fuck am I supposed to do this without hurting you?”
Frustrated by my injuries, I hit the mattress with my elbow. “Fuck!” I yelp, an awful, extreme pain shooting up my arm. My stomach instantly turns, nausea overwhelming me.
“Pearl.” My name is full of scorn as he scowls down at me. “That was a bit idiotic, wasn’t it?” He sighs and lies down next to me, propping himself up on his side with his elbow, resting his head on his hand. “Okay?”
“No,” I breathe, dropping my head to the side to see him.
“Tell me.”
“How I feel?” I ask, and he nods. “Frustrated. Uncertain. Scared.”
He nods mildly, slipping a hand past the waistband of my loose shorts. “What can I do to take your mind off things?”
My body lights up, all pain forgotten. My chest starts to pump, and he doesn’t miss it. The anticipation. “What about you?”
“I can multitask,” he whispers. “Lift.”
I ease my arse off the bed and let him push my shorts down to my thighs, and then he slips his thumb across my sex, smiling when I breathe in deeply.
And wince hard, the stab at my lungs dizzying.
“No, this isn’t happening,” he says, withdrawing his touch, and I can’t even be sorry. The pain is excruciating. “When did you last have some painkillers?”
“Just now,” I grumble. “They’ve probably not kicked in yet. We can try again in half an hour.”
His smile is fond. I know we won’t be trying again in half an hour. He eases my shorts up and settles for stroking across my tummy. He’s quiet. Thoughtful. I don’t disturb him, but his phone does. He reaches into his pocket and pulls it out, but it’s not his phone. It’s mine. He makes sure the screen is facing away from me as he reads the message. I try to gage his face but can’t.
“What is it?” I ask. Was that the message he’s been waiting for from my uncle?
“I need to talk to you about a few things,” he says, facing me, cupping my cheek with one hand.
“Okay,” I reply tentatively.
“About the arrangements.”
I nod, seeing him struggle. Whose arrangements? My uncle’s or Brad’s?
“You will not engage with him,” he says sharply. “Don’t even look at him. You will accept your mother’s necklace and stay close to me.”
