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This was other level, though.
Back to me, ass up in those light gray leggings that left very little to the imagination.
I had to take a steadying breath, releasing it slowly, and reminding my cock that it couldn’t be getting a semi for this particular woman, before I could move into the space.
“I spilled my coffee,” Millie said.
“Should have fucking left it,” I grumbled.
Sure, she was getting a little better day by day. But six days wasn’t long enough for her ribs to be feeling a lot better. Another week, maybe, and she’d be feeling at fifty or sixty percent. Not yet, though.
“Yeah, I’m, ah, seeing my mistake now,” she admitted, and, Lord fucking help me, her ass flexed a bit as she tried to push up on her one good arm, and my gaze couldn’t seem to look anywhere else.
“Hold on,” I said, putting the bags down on the counter, then moving in front of her, reaching down to offer my hand.
She placed hers in mine but immediately hissed as she tried to pull herself up.
“Alright. Hold up,” I said, releasing her gently, then reaching to grab her under the arms instead, slowly lifting her upright until she was on her feet, her back butted up against the counter, my body close. Way too fucking close.
I could smell that cinnamon sugar scent that clung to her, stronger after her showers, when she would come up to me and ask me to help her unwrap her cast that I’d put plastic wrap and tape all over, so she could go in the water without worrying about it. But it was always there all day long, each time she moved past me, or flicked her hair.
Fucking distracting, that was what it was.
“You good?” I asked, hearing the roughness in my voice, and hoping she didn’t know what it was from.
To that, she exhaled hard.
“I’m frustrated,” she admitted. “I thought I’d be moving around more easily by now.”
“Is the bruising better?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I think I’m looking at it too much,” she said.
Then, I shit you not, she reached down, and started to lift up her shirt.
Because that was exactly what the fuck I needed right then. To see more of her.
My gaze slid down, watching her expose inch by inch of her skin. Then there they were, the blue and purple bruises covering her ribs. Except there was some green and yellow mingling in now, showing signs of healing, of going away.
I wasn’t really aware of lifting my hand, until I could feel her velvety-soft skin under my rough fingertips.
I couldn’t tell if I imagined the way she shivered at the touch or not. So, God help me, I let my fingers tease across the bruises some more.
And, sure enough, there was another little tremble in response.
“That hurt?” I asked, knowing damn well it didn’t. But curious if she would lie to me.
When she didn’t answer, my gaze slid to hers, finding her face the slightest bit flushed.
“No,” she admitted, sounding breathy.
“You sure?” I asked, letting my fingers slide over her skin once again, watching her face as her lips parted, as her breath caught.
“Yes,” she said, voice barely more than a whisper.
What the hell was I doing?
I needed to keep my hands to myself.
