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“I…have no comment,” I said. “What are you doing?”
“Sewing you up,” he replied, even more amused, like my question was obvious and I was ridiculous for asking. I tensed, eyeing the needle in his hand. When he’d said I needed stitches, I’d thought we would go to a hospital or something, but now that I thought about it, I realized how stupid I was. We couldn’t go to a hospital. In fact, I wasn’t sure where we could go now.
But it didn’t matter, because we’d imploded together. Wherever we went, whatever happened next, it would finally be as one.
Anteros pressed against the flesh around the wound and the blood sputtered then flowed, like a river over rocks. With his free hand, he knotted my hair and forced me to look into his eyes.
“I won’t hurt you,” he growled, breath hot against my lips.
“I know.” And I did. Taking a deep breath, I said, “Do it.”
Anteros focused hard as he stitched me up. Back at the docks, he’d been aroused in a painfully obvious way; now he just treated me like a patient. It was annoying. Frustrating. I tried to capture his gaze and when that didn’t work I moved, released a sigh. He pushed his hand against my chest and said, “Stay still.”
I released another frustrated breath and stopped moving—for the moment.
He’d numbed my arm so I hardly felt the stitching, and that combined with the drugs had me feeling floaty. The slight pricking from the needle was actually invigorating. He was halfway done when he turned to get something from the box. I didn’t know what and I didn’t care. I was a little high and a lot horny. I sat up so the blanket fell and exposed me. When he turned back his hand froze with the needle, gaze devouring me.
When his eyes met mine they were fire burning over coals. I could smell the smoke, the charcoal. His jaw was clenched so hard I was sure he was hurting himself. I hoped he would tear the rest of the blanket away, but he just put the needle back into my arm.
I was mesmerized by every movement: the needle going through my skin, in and out, in and out, reminding me of sex, of him. Each prick further sensitized an already oversensitive body. I wasn’t sure if I was getting higher or if the feeling of euphoria was simply us.
When he was finished, he gently ran the pad of his finger along the fresh stitches. The contact hurt, but the pain meds were working so I just felt alive. Awakened. I reached for him but he moved away. I whimpered in protest.
“You need to rest.” His voice was hoarse, eyes locked with mine. He might not have been touching me anymore, but I saw through him. He was barely restraining himself. I stood up and ripped the blanket completely off.
“I need to heal,” I emphasized. With a groan low in his throat, Anteros pulled me to him, ran his nose along my neck like he’d done earlier. I felt the rumblings in his chest, the barely restrained need as he held me, grip so tight my flesh whitened and my stitches tugged.
“I can’t take you gently.” He ran his nose down my neck to the hollow of my collarbone where the bones connected, fibers of his beard teasing my flesh. I sighed, head falling back. Everything about him was coiled tight—his muscles, his rough, grating voice vibrating against my bones.
“Did I ask you to?” My voice was barely a whisper. Abruptly he stopped and pushed me, making me stumble to the couch. I braced my landing on my elbows.
“Go to sleep,” he said before turning to leave. What. The. Fuck?
“Where are you going?” I asked to his back, scrambling to get up. He didn’t stop walking, about to disappear under the stuffed deer head that delineated the start of the dark corridor he’d walked down earlier. I had to do something.
“Oh I get it,” I called out. “You’re injured. You’re going to go sleep because you’re too weak and tired and bleeding…” I listed everything I thought might piss him off. Come to think of it, the pain meds might have been working a little too well. The muscles on his neck corded, and I hoped he would turn around.
His hand shot out and gripped the edge of the entryway, but he didn’t turn back. A little part of my brain told me to shut up and stop pushing. It told me I was injured, told me the only reason I felt so good was because I was getting high—but I didn’t stop.
“Coward,” I said. He spun around and closed the distance between us in three purposeful steps.
“I know what you’re doing,” he said, pushing me back into the couch. His bluegreen gaze was sharp, penetrating. I fell into the color the same way I’d fallen into this world. Fast. Heady. Without any warning or thought to consequence.
“Did it work?” I whispered. There was just a sliver of space between us, lips close but not close enough to taste, his heady, spicy musk invading my senses and getting me drunk. My lips parted to speak—or maybe just to let out the steam inside my lungs—when he plunged a finger inside me. His charged stare was on me the entire time, keeping that sliver between us. I could only get my fix through watching him, but his gaze, almost as much as the magic his fingers worked, was sending me over the edge.
As I was about to come, he pulled them out. I groaned at the loss, but seconds later my groans were silenced.
Salty, delicious on my tongue.
Anteros fucked his fingers into my mouth, into my throat, simultaneously making me taste myself and gagging my protests. I tried to lick them, but I gagged harder.
Slowly he slid his fingers from my mouth, but he kept his thumb lightly on my tongue. I sucked it fervently, greedily, like he would take it away any minute. His eyelids hooded.
“Bad girl.” He tapped his thumb against my tongue as he took it from my mouth. I went after it, but he stopped me.
A charged silence hung in the air as I waited for him to make his next move. My wide eyes looked up at his narrow ones, fingers licked clean, tauntingly close to my mouth. Suddenly he snaked a hand behind my neck, grasping the hair so tightly my eyes watered.
“Get on your knees.” He dropped his hold and I quickly slid off the buttery leather couch. There wasn’t much space between the coffee table and the couch, but I wait
