12. Serena
Being touched by someone with so much obvious strength is a heady experience, especially when they’re doing all they can to maintain a gentleness that doesn’t seem to come naturally to them. Wolf is cradling my jaw like it’s the most precious thing in the world while simultaneously scolding me and telling me what a bad decision I made, as though I’m not fully aware that the piece on my back was a mistake of epic proportions.
I’ve already established that I’m not an idiot, so it’s not as though I’m ignorant of my current predicament. I just chose to ignore it for the last seventy-two hours.
“I’m going to take a look at your elbows and clean them up. I also got you some butter for the bruise on your jaw.”
“Butter? Why would I eat butter for my jaw?” I ask.
“You don’t eat it; you rub it on top of the bruise. My first trainer, Wojotek, was from Poland, and he swore by rubbing butter on bruises to help break up the blood clots and increase the flow of blood to the injured area. I’ve been doing it for years, and it seems to help. Some people use diluted apple cider vinegar or arnica cream, but I can’t stand the smell of either.”
He removes the supplies from the reusable bag as he speaks, lining things up first in height and then alphabetical order as he proceeds. I watch him arrange the labels so that they all face forward, a perfect arrangement of orderliness and functionality.
“My cabinets must have given you a coronary.”
His gaze cuts to me, and he offers a wry smile. “I rearranged your sink cabinet. Your shit pissed me off, and I couldn’t leave it like that.”
“Wh-what?” I sputter with a laugh. “You reorganized my bathroom?”
“That’s what I said.” He turns his attention back to the medical supplies and grabs a container of cotton pads. “Where would I find a small bowl?”
I point toward the sink. “The cabinet next to the sink has all my bowls and dishes. It’s better organized, I promise,” I tease. He grunts in response and moves in the direction I indicated. Turning on the faucet, he washes his hands before he opens my cabinet and grabs one of my cereal bowls. He quickly fills it with warm water and returns to my side.
He grabs a small bottle from his lineup, and I peer over my shoulder, careful not to turn my torso, to inspect his next steps. He must sense my interest because he holds up the container in his hand so that I can read the label of a brand I don’t recognize.
“What’s that?”
“A gentle soap. It’s the best to clean lacerations with.” He squirts the soap into the bowl and mixes it with a swirl of the bowl. “Stay still, I’m going to clean these cuts, and I don’t want your bony ass elbow getting me in the face.”
He makes quick work of cleaning out the wound, his fingers gentle as they wash out the dirt and grime that remained even after my shower. He’s soon finished and applying a topical ointment to my scrapes.
“Alright, I’m going to need to touch your back.” I swallow, shivering slightly at the thought of his touch over the expanse of my skin. For Wolf, I know that he’s seen and felt plenty of naked body parts before as a result of his career, but it still makes tingles race up my spine.
Not in dread, though it should be, but in excitement.
“Wait,” he cuts in as soon as I lean forward to give him better access. “Go lie down on the couch, you’re shivering. I should have realized you were cold; I’m sorry. Give me a minute to turn around.” I shake my head but don’t bother correcting him that I’m shivering in anticipation, not because I’m cold. “Okay, you can go to the couch now.”
I spin around, taking in his broad form and the tattoos that snake down from his neck to his fingertips like armor. I may have googled pictures of Wolf and videos of previous matches, so I know that eighty percent of his body is covered in detailed artwork. The black and gray pieces, mostly animal and hunter-themed, look like they’re three-dimensional and about to leap from his skin. In one video, the huge wolf head on his back has eyes so vibrant, so well-done, that it looked like it was watching you as he moved through the cage. I move my eyes back up to his neck, taking in the buzzed hair that was significantly longer two months ago. My hands flex with thoughts of running my fingers over his scalp and the faint lines I see on the back of his skull. I squint, trying to make out the circular triangle design, but can’t figure out what it is.
“You done staring at me?” I jolt in surprise, meeting his gaze in the hall mirror that hangs across from where we stand. From this vantage point, he can see everything: my breasts, naked stomach, and the attention I paid to his body. I flush, bringing up my hands to cover myself. “It’s a Triquetra.”
I draw my brows together, unsure of what he’s talking about. “What?”
“The symbol on the back of my head that you were studying. It’s a Triquetra, or Trinity Knot, a Scottish symbol for the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.”
“Are you religious?” I ask, as though I’m not standing in front of him half-naked and covering my nipples with a dainty forearm.
“Not particularly, but I’m not dead yet, even though I risk my life inside a cage and get beat up by men my size or larger. So, someone’s got to be looking out for me. Now, get on the couch so I can tend to your back.” I risk a glance back up at his face, only to see his eyes squeezed shut and his jaw clenched.
“Right, sorry.” I hurry to the couch and fling my body down, wincing at the graze on my jaw. I am going to have a nasty bruise in a few days, there is no doubt about that. “Okay, I’m decent.”
Wolf mumbles, and I hear something that sounds suspiciously like “Not likely” come from his direction. Turning my head, I rest it so that I’m looking out toward my living room and can see Wolf’s progress as he stalks to the kitchen island to grab supplies. Once he has everything he needs, he comes to my side and kneels on the floor beside me.
Just like before, Wolf narrates what his process is. “I’m going to clean the area with the soap and warm water mixture, and then I’ll apply a coat of AD ointment.”
I look up at him, frowning. “I don’t have AD.”
“I ordered it.” Wolf dips a clean cotton pad into the water and begins dabbing my skin, gently cleansing the irritated flesh on my back. I squirm under his ministrations, unable to stay still as he takes care of me.
“Stop moving, Serena,” Wolf admonishes beside me as he grabs a paper towel and blots the water from my skin. I don’t follow his command, instead moving more under his attention thanks to the sensitive areas of my body. “For fuck’s sake, Serena, stay still.”
“I can’t; I’m ticklish,” I rasp, breathing in a deep pull of air.
He stills, his hand on my lower back as he absorbs my words. “That so, princess?” His voice is deeper, more sensual than before, and I look up, watching his green eyes as they rake over my back. He drops the paper towel on the couch and brings his hand back to my skin, grazing it with the tips of his fingers. Unlike his previous clinical touches, this feels like more: more intimate, more personal, more important, and my mouth grows dry.
His fingers dance over the uninfected parts of my back as though he’s trying to determine the spots that make me squirm in discomfort and writhe in pleasure. He’s so focused that his eyes narrow into slits, and his mouth pops open, his tongue peeking out from his concentration. His fingers browse a sensitive spot, and I can’t help the gasp that breaks from my mouth.
“Wolf,” I whisper and start to turn to face him. My voice breaks Wolf of whatever spell he was under, and he bolts upright, banging into my ottoman before grabbing the decorative throw blanket and tossing it over my body. Before I can even ask if he’s okay, he’s speed walking into my kitchen and grabbing his still-damp sweatshirt and jacket.
“Your clothes are still wet; you’ll catch a cold if you put them on and then ride home like that,” I say, coming behind him while clutching the throw blanket over my body like a shawl.
“I’ve had worse,” he grunts out beneath the fabric. Once his face breaks free, I can see the panic stamped across his features. I don’t bother saying another word, knowing that any additional protests will come off as begging, and I refuse to put myself in that position again tonight. It’s bad enough that I had to petition him to let me wash his clothes; I won’t force him to stay in my home if he’s desperate to run out.
Following him to the front door, I huddle into my blanket and jump back when his voice fills the apartment. “Do not come to the door without a shirt on, for fuck’s sake. Who the hell knows who will be outside your door.”
I roll my eyes and do everything I can to keep the annoyance from my voice. “I’m completely covered, and no one will be out there. It’s too early for most people to come back from a party and too late for those who stayed in to be out.”
“Pain in my ass,” he grumbles. Reaching for the door handle, Wolf stills before turning his head, giving me his disgustingly handsome profile. “Make sure you keep all your wounds clean and wear loose, baggy clothing for at least a week or until the infection clears up on your back. If the infection doesn’t go away in a day or so on its own, or if you develop a fever, you need to go to the urgent care or your primary care physician for an antibiotic, probably penicillin. As soon as you’re all cleared up, give the shop a call, and Aubrey will schedule you with one of my artists for a consultation for a cover-up. There’s no fucking way you’re walking around with that shit for the rest of your life.”
“You won’t do the piece?” I ask, surprised that he mentioned another artist.
He shakes his head once. “I have too many clients and too long of a waitlist to add a cover-up into the mix right now. It takes planning, color theory, and a shit-ton of work to make sure the original is completely camouflaged or incorporated into the new piece.”
“Oh. Right, of course.”
“Don’t worry, all of my artists are highly skilled and can out-tattoo any other shop in the tri-state area. And that’s not me being cocky; most, if not all, my artists have won or placed in national competitions and are recognized as some of the best in their respective styles. I think you’ll like Sloan—she does both watercolors and photorealism and could make a real nice piece for you.”
“What’s your specialty?”
“Fine line and Japanese. Listen, I need to go. Don’t forget what I told you, and make sure you take care of your bruises, too. Rub some butter on your jaw before you go to bed; it should help to reduce the swelling and inflammation.”
“I will.”
“And lock up behind me. So help me God, do not leave this door open at night.”
“I will,” I repeat, transferring both edges of the blanket to one hand.
“And—”
I cut Wolf off, placing my free hand on his forearm. Rising on my toes, I place a delicate, chaste kiss on the underside of Wolf’s jaw, the highest point I’m able to reach due to our size difference. He sucks in a breath as though shocked by my actions. “Thank you, Wolf. For picking me up tonight, making sure I was safe, and taking care of me afterward. I know you didn’t have to and only did it as a favor to Celeste, but thank you anyway.”
Releasing a long exhale, Wolf turns his head and unlatches the door, throwing it open before tossing words over his shoulder. “Stop fucking kissing me, princess. And lock the goddamn door.”
He slams the door behind him, and I quickly turn the lock and the deadbolt, severing our connection. My mind nags at me to look through the peephole, and I raise my eye to watch the hallway. Wolf didn’t storm away, as I expected, but instead, he’s standing in front of my door, hanging his head and looking like a defeated man. I continue to observe him as he runs a hand over his buzzed head and scowls. Though I can’t hear him, his mouth moves, and I can make out the words departing his lips, “Fucking hell, princess.”
I watch as his form disappears through the peephole, holding my breath until I’m sure he’s out of the hallway and through the stairwell door. Releasing it slowly, I drop my head to my door and laugh, unable to contain my absolute confusion about how my night ended with me here: bruised, bloody, and drained. I’m grateful, annoyed, and unfairly turned on by Wolf’s appearance tonight; I shudder to think of what could have happened if I needed to walk through that party alone after hiding in the bathroom.
Dropping my shoulders, I drop my grip on the blanket and let it fall until it’s nothing more than a pool of fabric at my feet. Walking across the room, I turn off the lights and make my way to the hall bathroom Wolf used earlier.
His smell assaults me as soon as I step through the door and I inhale deeply, savoring the scent that envelops me.
“God, he smells like a freaking forest.” I sigh into the room. Grabbing the glass door of the shower, I pry it open and switch the water to hot. Even though I showered less than an hour ago in my primary bathroom, and had Wolf rubbing ointment on my back, I feel sticky and needy. I reason that I’ll reapply whatever Wolf did, even if I have to contort my body to do so. While the water runs, I check on the vanity cabinet and bite my lip at the color-coded rows. Wolf lined up each product in vertical lines according to color and height order, giving me a perfect view of every item in my cabinet.
Steam starts to fill the bathroom and I yank the shower door open, stepping into the stall carefully before closing the door. Somehow, Wolf’s scent is magnified by the scalding water, so strong that it feels like he’s in this tiny bathroom with me. Closing my eyes, I let myself imagine a world where Wolf doesn’t view me as helpless and impulsive, but beautiful and desirable. Trailing my hands up my body, I trace the droplets of water until my fingers meet my nipples, pulling at them until they stand erect and wanting. I don’t swallow the moan that builds in my throat, sharing it with the chipped black tile.
In my mind, it’s not my slim fingers on my chest, but Wolf’s thick, scarred hands pulling at my nipples until they’re red and puffy. Dragging one hand down my body, I don’t stop until my fingers meet my clit, strumming against it in hard, sure strokes. The dual stimulation causes my knees to buckle as an orgasm whips through me with little warning.
“Shit,” I gasp, moving one hand to brace myself against the wall. Wolf’s face still clouds my vision, and his smell still consumes me as I suck in a lungful of air.
I allow myself a few moments to feel the aftershock of my climax and the water beating my back before I push myself up, finish my shower, and leave all remnants of the night behind.