Epilogue #5
My gaze slides down to take in the mouth-watering iliac furrows on either side that swoop down to the waistband of his pants.
He flicks open the button, lowering his zipper.
The r-r-r-i-pping sound ricochets off the walls of the room and seems to hit me in my chest in tandem to the beating of my heart.
My pulse shoots through the roof. I want him to shuck off his jeans so badly.
It’s the hunger in me which brings me to my senses.
"Stop," I croak.
He pauses, a puzzled look on his face.
"Are you hurt anywhere else, other than your torso?"
He shakes his head slowly.
"You can keep your p-pants on then." I stumble over the word like I’m fifteen, instead of a qualified trauma specialist. I need to get a grip on my emotions.
"Whatever you say, Doc," he drawls.
That last word feels like a caress coming from him. Another shiver squeezes my lower belly. Ridiculous. I close the distance toward him. With each step I take, expectation pitches in my chest. I am conscious of the fact he’s watching me closely as I inch toward him.
His scent intensifies. Under that sharp astringent hospital smell is something dark, smoky, like distant campfire on a star drenched night, with a hint of leather, perhaps, from his jacket. And something else unique. Intoxicating. The scent of his skin, perhaps?
My knees tremble. My scalp tingles. Just as I'm congratulating myself on completing what feels like a walk of shame as I near him, I stumble and pitch forward.
Connor
I hold out my arms, and she falls into them.
Against my bare chest. On the wounded side.
Pinpricks of shock shudder up my spine to my brain.
The pain is nothing compared to the sensations hurtling out from where she’s placed her palms on my chest. Slim fingers, so pale against my skin.
Unvarnished nails. Cut short. Unadorned.
Yet, I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.
I hold her close, take full advantage of the proximity to bend and sniff her hair.
Flowers. Cherry blossom. Roses. With a touch of vanilla.
It’s feminine and light, yet packs a punch, enough to gut me.
Undressing for her was a most pleasurable experience.
Watching her hips sway as she walked away from me each day, as I watched her come out of her house every morning over the past week, has been agonizing.
By that I mean, it gave me so much pleasure, I had to find a way to find relief afterward each day.
I watched her house closely, imagined her under the sheets of her bed at night, obsessed over how it would be to hold her in my arms…
But it's nothing compared to the reality. Soft, curvy, with a waist so slim, I could span it with the width of my palm. And those gorgeous hips. I’m tempted to run my fingers over the swell, to squeeze their thickness, to massage them, to find out if they're as soft yet firm as they seemed.
But that would simply piss her off, I have no doubt.
She just met me. While I feel I know her, after the vigil I’ve kept over her since her brother asked me to, this is the first time she's meeting me. I couldn’t afford to upset her, no matter how much I want to swing her up in my arms, walk out of here, and lay claim to her.
All in good time. I swallow down my impatience and set her aside. "You, okay?"
She blinks. "Must be the new clogs. Not used to them yet."
I glance down at the yellow, closed-toe sandals with the thick, rigid sole.
They should look ugly, but they only emphasize the delicateness of her feet.
Toe-to-toe, she barely comes up to my chest. I'm at least a foot taller than her. I’ve always been a big guy.
Only Tyler, my older brother, is taller than me.
But I have broader shoulders. Not that Tyler will ever admit that.
I’ve learned, over the years, how to relax my body so I appear non-threatening.
But I’ll always appear like a giant next to her. I sink back onto the examination table.
She avoids my gaze, picks up the paperwork the nurse left, and scans through it.
"Connor Davenport. Thirty-two year. You were in a bar fight?" She levels a look at me from under her eyelashes.
I pop my shoulder. The triage nurse was thorough. I don’t see the need to add anything more than what's written there. It would mean I can avoid lying to the do.
When I stay silent, she continues reading, "You might need stitches." She sets the paperwork aside.
I slide my thighs apart in an invitation.
She hesitates. Then, because that’s the best way to examine the bruise I sport, she steps between them.
Her cheeks flush. But her fingers are confident when she pulls out a flashlight and shines it in my eyes.
Blinded, I blink, then manage to keep my eyes open.
She makes a humming sound which could mean anything, in the way that doctors often do.
She moves her finger in front of my eyes, and I follow the direction.
"No concussion," she says shortly. "You’ll need stitches for that though." She nods toward the wound on my forehead, and that—she glances at the wound at my side.
Movements brisk, she touches the skin next to the dried blood on my forehead.
My muscles jump. Sensations zip up my spine.
It takes everything in me not to groan. I curl my fingers into fists, press my feet into the floor, and will my body to relax.
Impossible, when every tendon in my body seems to have turned to steel.
And the muscle between my legs to granite.