That assured credit got me an unforgettable one-night stand. I can’t let it affect me again.
Craving male recognition of my independence is messed up. I should be able to award myself thatconfidence, but here we are. Yet another thing I have my father to thank for.
I need to book an emergency session with a therapist, to unravel the past few weeks and my out-of-character behavior.
Is it stress? I let out a whimper to channel my exasperation.
“Does it hurt so much?” Liam shuts the door behind him.
Closing my eyes, I whimper again. Because what else am I going to do? I’ll let him patch me up, throw him out, and then search for my dignity and fortitude.
The moment of resigning myself to my current situation doesn’t last long, because Liam rips off my tights.
“What the hell, Stone?”
“I need to clean the wound. They were torn anyway.” He scoops my leg and turns it slowly toward the window, inspecting the cut. “It’s superficial. I don’t think you need stitches, but it’s going to be a bitch to heal because it might open every time you bend your knee.”
He takes out an antiseptic spray and covers the wound. I swallow a hiss. He saw enough of my vulnerability today.
Cleaning the cut with expert moves, like he’s doneit many times, he crouches in front of me like this is normal. Like this situation makes sense.
It doesn’t.
His hands are calloused. Like he’s been used to manual labor instead of boardrooms. These are not rich-boy hands. These are fighter’s hands—broad, calloused, knuckles nicked like they’ve seen bone.
His nails are cropped to nothing, dark grit hiding at the edges, and my curiosity snaps awake.
Then I my eyes land on the scar. A thin, angry slash from his thumb to his wrist. Fresh enough to still matter. Old enough to carry weight.
“Are you plotting my murder, Thunder?” The humor in his voice should annoy me. It doesn’t. Have I hit my head as well?
“I’ve already plotted a few scenarios.”
He looks up from beneath his eyelashes, and the line between his eyebrows deepens. And I’m pretty sure the gravity shifts.
“A few?” His rasp carries a hint of approval. Or awe.
I must have hit my head.
He slips the cap of the liquid bandage between his lips, and I actually forget how to swallow.
His mouth shapes around the plastic, and suddenly, my entire body is a bad idea.
The chemical scent of the bandage hits mynose as he leans in, steadying my knee with one strong hand. His thumb brushes the inside of my leg.
Accident. Probably.
Still devastating as heat rolls through me. Hot. Sudden. Humiliating.
He must feel it. Of course he feels it.
But he doesn’t look up. He just blows lightly on the drying bandage, and my breath hitches loud enough to embarrass me.
His mouth is inches from my skin. His breath is warm. And for one dizzying second, I wonder if he’s about to kiss my knee.
Stupid. Impossible. Craved.
My heart climbs into my throat.
