Page 79 of Mile High Heist

Jax hissed, then went quiet. I watched the ridged valley of his stomach rise and fall steadily.

His body was ridiculous. I told myself it was the athlete in me that appreciated his defined abs and pecs. He wasn’t movie-star buff. He was punch-walls-and-eat-nothing-but-chicken buff.

Despite what I said, I was struggling to control myself. I blamed the adrenaline. The near-death experience.

Madoc’s looming presence at my back didn’t help matters.

Refusing to act on it, I went to work. I sterilized, cleaned, and wrapped. I listened to Jax’s steady breathing. I heard nothing from behind me. When I was finished, I sank back on my stinging heels and admired my handiwork.

“You need to take it easy,” I said, my voice cracking from disuse. “I mean it. None of that stupid macho crap.”

Jax chuckled and stretched his leg, testing the bandage. I pinched his calf in warning. “What did I just say?”

“Sorry, nurse.”

My eyes bounced up at the sound of his grin. Then my attention was instantly caught on something else.

Oh my god.

Jax was hard.

Rock hard.

The rigid outline of him was plain as day beneath his briefs. It was barely inches from my face. I could feel the heat radiating from him, the musky smell of him. Masculine. Heady. Dangerous.

Heat rushed through me so quickly, it made me dizzy.

I wouldn’t acknowledge it. Not when it was obviously some stress-related response. Or, like, a delayed reaction from our earlier encounter in the bathroom. He’d been denied release and his body was just catching up.

Just adrenaline, I told myself firmly. Nothing to do with you.

I cleared my throat and looked away. I tidied up the gauze around me, keeping my hands busy. I was just about to stand when a cold voice cut in from behind me.

“You’re not done.”

I froze, my hands braced on Jax’s thighs in my aborted attempt to stand. Against my better judgment, my eyes flicked up. Jax was perched on his elbows, watching me. His face looked tired, but his eyes were burning.

My heart thumped in my throat.

The words escaped me before I could swallow them back: “Where else does it hurt?”

Jax’s mouth inched up into a familiar, roguish grin. “Cold,” he said.

I frowned. “You don’t feel cold.” In fact, his skin burned beneath my palms. Did he already have a fever? An infection?

Jax laughed. “Still cold.”

I stared at him dumbly for a beat longer. And then it clicked.

My body erupted into a quick, tingling inferno. I glanced down at my hands, spread over his thighs. Testing my theory, I dragged them a few inches higher.

“Warmer.”

I snatched my hands back. My first instinct was to retreat and pretend I didn’t understand what he wanted. What I wanted. It was wrong. He was injured. He was crashing from the adrenaline. Touching him would be taking advantage.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Plus, I could never ignore Madoc. He was a shadow on my back, a looming presence that made my skin prickle with unease.