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My gaze slips over his arms again, before I frown. I pause, looking at his injury from the shattered whiskey bottle. My brow furrows at the bloody-looking gauze, hastily taped—withmasking tape—to his arm.
“You should probably get that looked at.”
Jackson glances down at his arm and shrugs.
“It’s fine.”
“It…really isn’t. That looks disgusting.”
He grunts. “I’m fine.”
“Can I dress that for you?”
“I’d rather youundress something else.”
I swallow the heat from my face.
“I meant can I change your bandage before you get some gross infection, and you lose a fucking arm or something.”
He eyes me coolly, arching a brow.
“First aid kit is in that cupboard.”
He nods his chin to a rack of drawers next to the pantry doors. I bring my plate to the sink, balancing it precariously on the pile, before I go and retrieve the kit from the cupboard. I approach him warily, hovering just out of reach of him for a second longer than normal. Before, finally, I cross that last divide between us to sit next to him.
Jackson takes a sip of whiskey—from a glass at least, now—as he drops his tattooed, muscular, veined arm across of the marble countertop of the kitchen island.
“I’m at your mercy, doc. Do your worst.”
But the charm is lost on me, because I know how very wrong that statement is. Because boat-less, phone-less, and trapped here alone with the demon king of rock ’n roll who seems to exhale pure lust and desire?
He’s not at my mercy at all.
I amvery muchat his.
9
Melody
The rain beginsto thud hard against the kitchen windows as I peel the gross bandage off his arm.
I wince at the messy looking scab underneath. But the cut isn’t deep or even that big it’s just…messy. It’s not like he needs stitches or anything, but it does need to be cleaned and bandaged correctly.
Like, without masking tape, for instance.
I reach for the rubbing alcohol.
“This may hurt.”
Jackson says nothing when I bring the soaked gauze to his cut. He also doesn’t move or flinch as I clean the crusty scab. When the cut doesn’t look like special effects makeup from a trench-warfare movie anymore, I dress it with antibiotic ointment and then wrap his forearm in a clean bandage.
It’s not until I step back to admire my work that I realize I’ve been touching him, for the last five-to-ten minutes.
I shiver heatedly.
I was so focused on what I was doing that I haven’t realized that my fingers and arms have been brushinghisarm the entire time. And now that I’m aware of it, suddenly the heat is transferred to my own skin, where it catches like a brushfire.
I stand quickly, closing the first aid kit.
