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He kneeled down in front of her, all olive skin and muscled thighs and Shyla had to remind herself she was definitely no femme fatale. Because he looked mighty tasty.
He raised her leg, oh so gently. His fingers deftly probing and prodding as he inspected her injury, and Shyla couldn’t help wondering what those fingers would feel like on other places of her body.
Jeez! What was wrong with her? She wasn’t this person. Wasn’t of a mind to objectify someone… usually.
Then again, none of this was usual, was it? She tried to push her wayward thoughts out of her mind but didn’t succeed as Jericho proceeded to sit next to her with a bowl of water and a small piece of cloth which looked like it had been torn off of something bigger.
“Let’s take a look at this graze and get it cleaned up a bit, so it doesn’t get infected,” he rumbled in a voice that felt like velvet stroking down her spine.
Maybe she was still dreaming.
She thought that dream couldn’t get much better, as Jeri bathed her head and loosened her matted hair, and Lazarus carefully bound her ankle.
But she was wrong.
Just when she thought her wayward thoughts couldn’t get any more improper than lusting after not one, but two men, both of whom were taking care of her in a way she wasn’t used to, but which tugged at something deep inside, Dante stepped into her line of vision.
She looked at him from beneath her lashes, trying not to move while Jericho was cleaning her wound. He stared down at her, his eyes alight with a burning intensity that she surely couldn’t be imagining.
Holding out a battered tin cup, he said, “Here, drink this. You need to get something hot and sweet inside you.”
She took the mug and dropped her gaze to the warm, chocolatey goodness inside.
Taking a sip, she decided this definitely wasn’t a dream.
She must have died and gone to heaven.
