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“Yeah,” I agreed, nodding.
“Ah, babe?” he called when I started to hobble toward the door.
“What?”
“Might want to go home in something other than a blanket,” he said, his gaze roaming over my barely covered body.
I swear each inch of it warmed under his inspection.
From, you know, embarrassment.
Nothing else.
“Right,” I agreed. “Where’s my dress?”
“In a bag. Covered in blood,” he said, turning to open the door.
“Then what am I going to wear?” I called to his retreating form.
Part of me wanted to follow him, but I didn’t know if there were other mafia dudes out there, and I didn’t want to step out in front of them in a thin blanket.
So I waited there until Surgeon returned with a men’s button-down, and a pair of black pajama pants.
“Best I could do. Don’t exactly have a lot of female patients here,” he explained, moving inside.
“What are you doing?”
“You think you’re getting into these without help?” he shot back.
“I’m going to have to figure it out.”
“Yeah, after you give your wounds and stitches a break for a couple hours at least,” he said, moving forward, making me step back until the exam table wouldn’t let me retreat any more. “Babe, I’ve seen it already,” he said, gesturing down at my body. “Don’t make everything hurt worse just to be a stubborn ass,” he said.
Were those, you know, nice words?
No.
But, hell, this was New York.
We didn’t expect nice.
But under all of that not-nice we were so well known for, was a lot more kindness than you’d expect.
Like this Surgeon guy. He was being a bit of a dick while doing it, but he was trying to do something good.
“Okay,” I conceded.
But stayed frozen on the spot.
Surgeon’s hand rose, grabbing the sheet where I was holding it between my breasts, his fingertips grazing the swells.
And, damnit, what can I say?
It had been a long, long while since I’d had the time of day to give a man.
My body was just hyperaware of the sensation.
Thankfully, that tremble that moved through me, yeah, it was just on the inside.
