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He waits for me to lead the way, so I do.
I swear I can feel his gaze burning through the back of my robe. I glance over my shoulder to catch him watching the sway of my ass.
“Where do you want me?” I ask as soon as we’re close to the couch.
His lips curve into a small smile. “You take the couch. I’ll have a seat on the coffee table.”
“All right,” I agree. “Do you want something to drink before we start? I have beer, or water. I’m sure I must have a can of soda in my fridge too.”
“Beer.” He motions to the couch. “You sit. I’ll get one for each of us.”
I don’t bother telling him that I can’t stand the taste of beer because I sense if I refuse, he’ll skip it too, and he looks like he could use one.
He returns less than a minute later with one open bottle of beer in his hand. “Let’s share.”
I may need to give beer another chance.
I take the offered bottle and down the smallest sip before I hand it back to him. He wraps his lips around it and gulps a mouthful before placing the bottle on the coffee table.
“Take a seat, Eloise.”
I do just that in the center of the couch. He settles on the coffee table, directly across from me.
“Lean forward.”
I do as requested, holding my breath as he studies the small cut on my forehead. After I washed the blood off my face, I could tell the wound was small.
“This looks fine,” he comments in a whisper. “I’ll still bandage it for good measure.”
He does that with effortless ease. Choosing a small bandage before ripping it from the package and applying it to myforehead with tenderness. He immediately follows that with a brush of his fingertips over my cheek.
“Your knee is next.”
I offer my foot to him, and he smiles, placing it on his right thigh.
Since my robe is so large, everything that is supposed to be covered still is.
He touches the area around the scrape on my knee before he leans closer to get a better look. I feel his breath rush over the skin of my leg.
“This is fine,” he finally says. “I’d recommend letting it breathe. You won’t feel it in a day or two.”
“All right,” I whisper. “All that’s left is my elbow.”
I go to push the fabric of my robe up my arm to reveal my elbow, but his focus is still on my leg.
“Lamb.”
The word, spoken in a hushed tone, feels weighted with so much need that it’s palpable.
“Yes?” I somehow manage to get that out.
“I need…” His voice trails as he reaches for the beer to take another pull. “I need to think.”
“Why?” I ask.
His gaze catches mine. His eyes have darkened. There’s a dangerous promise there. It’s waiting to be unleashed. “Why do I need to think?”
“Yes,” I answer, leaning forward to brush one of my hands against his. “Why think when you can just feel?”
