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I feel slightly nauseated as I watch him lift the strap over his head. Another drop of blood lands on his cheek.
I step forward, arms out, my sweaty, shaking hands turned palms-up. “Can I help?”
His face, still slightly tight, morphs as his lips curve and his stark cheeks round a little. Blue-gray eyes find mine. His smile—or smirk—makes me feel weaker than I do already.
And then he laughs, a low, rough chuckle. “I don’t think so, Splinter.”
Holy hell, his voice is dark: an earthy rumble I feel like a push to the center of my chest. I inhale to get my balance, but I can’t stop the goosebumps on my skin or the pleasant echo I feel low in my belly.
I watch, dumbstruck, as he pulls his right arm from its shirtsleeve, slings the gun strap over his shoulder, and slips free of the shirt, revealing the vast, tatted expanse of the most chiseled slab of muscle I have ever seen in all my life.
Just the sight of that…perfection makes me pulse between my legs. Somewhere, I’m aware that he’s balled up his shirt and he is pressing it against his head, but my brain is broken.
My gaze caresses his pecs and shoulders, round and sculpted. Strong. That raised arm is a fucking gun—the bicep is like a rock. A boulder. Stop it, Gwen. But I just…can’t. My hungry gaze slides down his chest: the curve of heavy pecs, the deep groove at the center of his eight-pack. God, his hips. I blink. My eyes jump from his chiseled hips to his happy trail, then back to his hips. They’re hewn in marble. Lord. They make that “V”…
I’m lit up like a light bulb when I feel his gaze on my face.
Shit!
I lift my eyes to his, my cheeks burning with shame, and find a tiny, amused smile. I hold my breath for a half a heartbeat, waiting for the little not-quite-smile to turn into a smirk, but he just stands there, looking like a wounded Mr. Autumn pinup, still impeding my breathing.
“Splinter?” I blink and square my shoulders in hopes of steadying myself.
The corners of his lips twitch. “Yeah.”
“The one from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”
He nods.
I smile.
Maybe he’s not an asshole.
Shut up, Gwen. Who cares?
His hand, holding the wadded shirt, clenches—and I feel ill with embarrassment and guilt.
“Are you okay? I’m so sorry, again.” I step a little closer, one hand out, because I want to help but don’t know how. “I saw you and I thought…I thought I saw someone on my cameras the other day, so when I saw you I freaked. Is your head okay?”
I have to look up to see his face. He’s so tall. I feel small and nervous, like a peasant in the presence of a king. It’s a new feeling for me, so foreign that when he speaks again, the feeling plus my throat-throbbing reaction to his rumbly voice make it hard for me to focus.
“I had a scar,” he says quietly. “I think it split open.”
His face relaxes just a little as he takes a deep breath, but the echo of a wince still clings to his features. I can see the careful, achy squint of his eyes.
“Can I look?”
“It’s okay.” The words—and all the other ones I’ve heard from him—have an honest sort of quality, as if he’s speaking in a voice that’s rough because his throat is tight with big emotion. As if he cares about me in some way, though of course he doesn’t.
You’re ridiculous.
I swallow hard and stand up straighter. “I am so, so sorry,” I say in my best just-a-normal-friendly-and-concerned-neighbor tone.
Then I blink a few times, to dispel the feeling that my eyes are stuck to his like magnets.
“Come to my house,” I hear myself tell him. My voice sounds shaky, so I swallow. “Let me look at it. I’ll drive you if you need to go somewhere.”
I’m pleased; my voice sounds clear and normal. Just an ordinary neighbor. So I’m surprised when his face shutters, his mouth tightens, and he shakes his head: no.
