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“I do.”
“I do,” he corrected me. “Stay.”
I wasn’t planning on going anywhere, but I stayed still anyway while he looked me over, slow and thorough, seeming legit angry over what really were just scratches.
“It’s normal,” I told him, definitely turned on by the whole growly, protective thing, but not sure how worried he actually was, not wanting him to freak outtoohard. “I’m beat up all season. It’s a rough sport.”
“This… looks painful,” he told me, pressing a couple of fingers down on either side of the ugliest scrape. I’d barely noticed it until he said that, but once he pointed it out I felt it, a little turf burn, but nothing major. Nothing I’d ever look at twice, but he didn’t look at me the same way I looked at myself.
I swallowed. “It’s fine. It’s just from sliding around in the grass. Jersey slides up, you get piled on, little friction…”
He smirked, and I hadn’tmeantto make it sound dirty, but okay.
“What about this?” he asked me, and he dragged his fingers down over my ribs, and I had to squint to see a barely visible splash of yellow bruise from who even knew how long ago.
“Helmet, probably.”
“This?” He dragged his thumb underneath the spot on my chest, highlighting it with a half-circle.
“It’s just a mark from where my pads rub against me all the time.” This was a weird game and I kind of liked it, and it kind of made me a little queasy because I didn’t mind showing off battle scars but it really depended on the battle, and if he walked over a land mine this was going to be a lot less fun. “If you’re looking for sore spots, you’ll have better luck flipping me over,” I told him, and he smiled and raised up off me long enough to grab my hip and flip me onto my stomach so fast and easy I laughed when I landed.
“Fuck, Beast.”
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He settled back down on top of me, making himself comfortable on my thighs and teasing his fingers up my back.
I snorted. “Gimmie a break.”
“What’s this from?” he asked me. “This looks new.”
I tried to twist around and see what he was pointing out on the back of my shoulder, but I didn’t stretch like that. “I don’t know. What’s it look like.”
“A scrape. Does it hurt?”
I shook my head. “Probably from getting knocked on my ass when I was thinking about you plowing me.” He was quiet, and I sighed. “Want to put a band-aid on it?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.”
He reached for his doctor kit and a minute later I winced when he dabbed it with his murder wipe.
“I said a band-aid,” I muttered, dropping down on the pillow.
“You know how this works. Stop whining.”
I grinned into my fist and let him finish up, not even caring if it made me weird to like this kind of attention. Made him feel good, made me feel good, what did it really matter.
When he stuck a band-aid on top of it, he dragged his fingers down my sides again, and I tried to imagine my back, what kind of scars and bruises might be there I didn’t want to talk about, but honestly it was so hard to remember. And when his fingers made it to my shorts, slipping down under the elastic, my mind went blank anyway.
“I should probably check under here,” he told me. “To see if there are any injuries.”
“Yeah. Seems like a good idea.” I reached underneath and loosened my drawstring, lifting up to help him tug my clothes off, feeling so goddamn naked in just a band-aid it wasn’t even funny.
“Well… you’re a little pink,” he told me, rubbing his hand across my ass, and the sting from the shed was pretty short-lived, but a little heat was still there— unless that was just my body revving up again from being touched. “Does that hurt?”
“Mmm.” I squirmed against the bed when he moved from gentle rubbing to grabbing with both hands. “Nope.”
Gotta say, my stamina was higher than I’d ever had a chance to test. Like sure, I was a jock in my prime, but coming my brains out three squares a day still felt pretty impressive for a guy who was always just one and done. But The Beast knew how to turn me on like nobody else.
