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Frustrated fingers jab at the call button on the side of the bed, making me stand.
“What do you need?” I wouldn’t put it past her at this point to ask me to leave and call security if I refuse. She must know a team of hospital staff would be required before I walked away from her. I inch closer to the bed, trying to shove down that acknowledgement.
“I need to pee,” she mutters, her face screwing up in pain when she pulls the blankets back.
I freeze, anger rolling through me in violent waves at the sight of the bruises covering her legs.
“Don’t,” she hisses, seeing my reaction to her injuries. “I bruise easy, don’t you remember? I had your handprints on my hips the entire time we were—”
She snaps her jaw closed, as if catching herself saying something she didn’t mean to voice out loud. The memory of those fingertip bruises on her skin is enough to make me lose my train of thought. I didn’t smack her ass, but I did grip her tightly when I bent her over and—
“I can help you to the bathroom,” I offer, walking around to the side of the bed between her and the restroom.
She winces again, her face contorted in pain as she swings her legs over the edge of the bed.
“If you’d let them give you something more than Tylenol—”
“I’m allowed to choose what goes in my body,” she mutters, halting any argument on my part.
She must overestimate her body’s ability and willingness to cooperate right now because I barely catch her before she can crumple to the floor.
I hold her against me, my eyes focused across the room as she presses the full length of her body to mine.
I expect a slap in the face or at least a shove to my chest, but this woman has an uncanny ability to surprise me.
“You smell good.” She presses her nose to the center of my chest. “You always smelled so good.”
I clear my throat, hoping she’ll take it as a sign to back up a little because I have no ability to do it myself, but she stays plastered to me as she looks up at me.
Her eyes search mine, and I have no idea what she’s looking for. I take a step back with my hands still under her arms before she can find it. This woman broke me years ago, and I’d be a fool to let her start that process all over again.
That look she’s giving me is so familiar, I almost fall for the trap. It brought me to my knees on numerous occasions. It’s filled with longing and need, and when we were younger, it led to many things, none of which involved clothing. I remember. My cock remembers. And that alone makes our current situation very dangerous.
I know the last thing she wants is for people to see her any differently after what she’s been through. She doesn’t want to be perceived as a victim. Her stubbornness doesn’t allow for it. Nearly all of my best memories of her ended in orgasms. Thinking of those things now, right after talking about the possibility of her being raped, makes my train of thought utterly disgusting.
Thankfully, I have more control of my body now than I did at twenty. My brain back then would’ve convinced me that sex would heal all of her wounds. It would tell me that the looks she was giving me was all the consent I needed.
I know better now.
“The bathroom,” I remind her as I turn to line up at her side rather than standing right in front of her and enduring her scrutiny.
She looks away, her eyes darting to the door, and I pray that the tears welling on her lower lashes have more to do with pain than anything else. I can’t let my mind go there. I can’t imagine she’s pained because I couldn’t take my eyes off her lips, or kept thoughts from infiltrating my head about her comments on the bruises I left behind on her body after a very active night of—
“Jesus,” I mutter, growing angry with myself.
Maybe being here isn’t good for either of us.
“You don’t have to help if it bothers you to be near me so much.”
“I don’t want you to fall,” I say, instead of giving a voice to all the other needs swarming inside of me.
She grunts her annoyance, but she lets me help her to the restroom, insisting on closing herself inside. I know enough about her to understand the sudden burst of independence.
“I’ll be right out here when you’re done,” I tell her through the closed door.
She mumbles something I can’t hear, forcing me to press my ear to the door, and that’s what the nurse sees when she walks in to answer the call Grace made before climbing out of the bed. Her eyes narrow, making me feel like a creep.
