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When she finally lifts her head, and her eyes find mine, the room falls silent. I take in her natural beauty, from the mess of hair on the top of her head to the old sweatshirt that’s hiding her slim frame. Every detail is more beautiful than the last.
I can feel Kane’s gaze bouncing between us as we continue to stare at each other. Then I feel a cool breeze against my back followed by the sound of the front door shutting behind him.
“What are you doing here?” she finally asks.
“I came to help.”
“Mya said Kane was coming to help.”
“And I came with him.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“It doesn’t take two people to wrap my ankle.”
“I was going to let him do that.”
“He just left.”
“I guess that means you’re stuck with me.”
One step toward her and her eyes widen, her chest rising as she sucks in a deep breath and holds it. Another step and she breaks eye contact, looking for an escape route. By the time I reach her, her breathing is ragged, her hands shaking as she attempts to hold herself upright.
I expect her to protest when I sweep her into my arms, carrying her like a husband carries his wife over the threshold for the first time, but she’s silent, her mouth popping open in surprise. Moving through the house, I make my way to the kitchen, carefully setting her on the counter.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking a look at your ankle,” I state as I kneel in front of her, pushing up the leg of her sweatpants before wrapping my hand around her delicate calf.
Her entire body shudders.
It doesn’t look broken. Maybe a slight sprain. She’ll need to keep it elevated and alternate hot and cold compresses. Stay off it for a day or two.
I can feel her watching me, assessing me. And I like the way it feels.
“Is it broken?” she asks as I stand to my full height.
“No, but you should stay off it for a few days.”
“Can I drive?”
“Can you flex your foot?” She purses her lips together, my attention drawn to the luscious, heart-shaped globes.
My blood pumps faster, sending shots of adrenaline straight to my dick. My need to kiss her is compounded when she grimaces in anguish, and I find myself closing the little bit of space that I was trying to keep between us.
She’s hurt, asshole. The last thing she wants right now is you manhandling her.
True. But…
Take away her pain. Kiss her. Help her focus on something else.
My subconscious is fighting with itself. I’m fighting with myself.
Kissing her feels selfish. Wrong. She has a boyfriend. I didn’t know that earlier when I kissed her, but now that I do, I can’t ignore the facts. That doesn’t make me want to kiss her any less. The softness of her lips is the only thing I can think about right now.
Leaning in, I rest my forehead against hers and close my eyes. Maybe this can be enough. Maybe just being close to her, touching her, will suffice.
