“It’s a friend of mine. He’s a doctor.” I sat on the large chunk of wood that made up my rustic coffee table. “I want to make sure that you’re okay.”
“They didn’t hurt me.” She kept her slim hands wrapped around the mug.
“You’ve had a rough night.”
Her hand shot out and grabbed mine. “Cole, thank you. Thank you for fighting for me.”
I felt some weird sensation under my ribs. I managed a nod.
“If you hadn’t, and Anton…” She shuddered. “I’ve told him no, over and over, but he’s never listened.” She made a sound. “Some men just take what they want, the rest of us be damned.”
I suddenly felt like pounding on Kamensky all over again. “He hurt you?”
She shook her head. “Cornered me a few times, but I always managed to get away.”
“You don’t have to worry about him anymore.” I tried to move my hand away, but she clamped on harder.
Guessing she needed the contact, I let my fingers tangle with hers. It felt weird. I could easily count how many times I’d held a woman’s hand—zero. She relaxed a little.
Then she gasped. “Your knuckles.”
I winced. They were swollen and ripped up. Not the first time, and not the last. It probably looked horrible to her. “Yeah, it happens.”
Her fingers brushed over my hand, and I felt it like the touch of a butterfly.
She leaned forward. “Let me clean them for you. Do you have a first aid kit?”
“They’re fine, Lili. I’ll deal with them later. You’re the one who’s shaken up.”
She set her mug down on the coffee table. “I want to help. Please…” Her voice broke. “I need to do something. To…” Her brown eyes were so big. “Please?”
Dammit. “Kit’s under the sink.”
She bounced up, the jacket sliding off her shoulder. She threw it on the couch and hurried to the kitchen, the short hem of her dress showing off way too much of her legs. They weren’t stick thin, and I found my gaze locked on her curvy thighs. I liked curves. My hands clenched. She was back in a second, opening the first aid kit on the couch beside her.
Pausing, she looked up. “It’s nearly empty.”
It was messy, with opened bandages and nearly empty tubes. “I use it a lot.” It wasn’t the first time I’d come home from a fight needing to wipe the blood away. If I needed stitches, Landon usually patched me up.
She found an antiseptic wipe and ripped it open. Then she grabbed my left hand in hers, and started cleaning.
I watched her red-brown hair as she bent over my hand. Her movements were so careful and delicate, nothing like the rough swipes I used when I cleaned myself up. I also couldn’t help noticing the sway of her breasts and deep cleavage in that damn dress.
My cock was definitely noticing.
Fuck. I was no better than Kamensky.
Once she was done, she smoothed cream over my knuckles. Then she started on the other hand.
“Your hands are so strong,” she murmured.
She was so close, her movements so gentle, and I could smell her. She smelled like vanilla.
Need hit me low in the gut. I resisted the urge to shift on the table, and willed my cock to stay down.
Lili Armstrong was way too young, and way too sweet for the likes of a broken fighter like me. My hands had hurt and killed more people than I could count. Hers were slim and pretty. They deserved the best, not to be used to clean away my blood.
She was too damn tempting.
