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“Oh yeah, baby. Just call me Romeo.” He chuckled, gently stroking my cheek.
Reluctantly, I pull away from him, pull my robe back on, and head to the bathroom to wash my sweaty face.
As I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, I can’t help but smile. My dark hair is disheveled, and my grey eyes are lighter than usual. The cut on my cheek has nearly healed, leaving only a faint scar—a reminder that I am a fighter.
I splash water on my face and pat my face dry, and my cheeks redden as I think about what James and I did only hours before. My core tightens, remembering how he felt inside me, and I still feel him.
“Ava?” James calls, startling me from my thoughts. He followed me into the bathroom, his gaze fixated on my side. “You’re bleeding,” he exclaims, sounding alarmed.
“What?” I look down in the direction of his eyes, and there’s a dark red stain pooling through the thin fabric of my robe.
“One of my stitches must have torn open,” I realize, undoing my robe and wincing when it sticks to my stitches.
“Sit down on the toilet. Let me take a look,” He gestures, carefully peeling the fabric away for me.
“It must have happened when I had my nightmare,” I explain.
“There was a spot of blood on the sheets, and I thought I had hurt you,” he pressed the towel against my wound.
“You didn’t hurt me. I’m fine,” I reassure him with a smile.
“Are you sure?” His eyes search mine, looking like he isn’t convinced that he isn’t at fault.
“Yes, James. I promise. I have a first aid kit downstairs in the hall closet by the front door.”
He hesitates but nods after a few seconds and leaves. I hear him rustling in the bedroom and then my door closing.
I remove the towel, run it under the faucet, and gently clean up the blood drying on my side. It looks like only one stitch came undone, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed with a little bit of super glue and a new bandage.
When James returns, I clean up all the blood and stopped the bleeding.
“I think a little bit of super glue should hold it closed,” I suggest.
He opens the kit and looks through for the glue. I raise my arm, giving him a clearer view of my wound. He works silently, and his expression is focused and thoughtful.
“You’re quite serious, Mr. Buchanan,” I playfully tease.
A grin breaks his concentration, and he kisses my forehead, “I think you’ll survive.”
“I always do,” I tell him and enter my closet to put on sweatpants and a loose T-shirt.
James leans against the doorframe and watches me as I dress, his eyes fill with desire, and my stomach jumps at the thought of him inside me again.
This man will be the death of me.
“I need to wash my sheets before the blood stains,” I go to him, wrapping my arms around his neck and kissing him deeply.
He growls, the deep rumble tickling my mouth, and he returns my kiss, his tongue grazing my teeth, “I’d rather stay up here and keep kissing this perfect mouth of yours.”
“As much as I want to, I’m famished. I need some food in my stomach,” I admit, my stomach growling in appreciation.
He groans, pushing his hard length against my stomach. I reluctantly untangle myself from his embrace, heading downstairs.
I load my robe and sheets into the washing machine, selecting the cold and heavy-duty settings.
James followed me downstairs but disappeared to check on his team.
The house is quiet and dimly lit. The only sound is the faint radio checks in the distance. I venture into the kitchen and open my refrigerator.
