Oakley #2
Levi tightens his hold on me, carrying me down the hallway, whispering something low under his breath.
I can’t make out the words. The pounding in my head from the pain and my threatening tears make it impossible to concentrate.
I rest my head against his chest as he walks, trying to focus on the sound of his heart and the low rumble of his voice.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into my hair, planting a kiss there as he kicks his bedroom door open and steps across the threshold.
I expect him to put me down on the bed, but he keeps moving until we’re standing in a large en suite bathroom, complete with the most extravagant walk-in shower I’ve ever seen.
A large clawfoot tub sits against the far wall beneath a wide picture window that looks like it belongs in a living room rather than a bathroom.
Across from the shower are double sinks set into pristine white marble countertop, their brushed gold faucets perfectly matching the gold-rimmed mirror that takes up the entire wall above it.
“You’ve been holding out on me,” I observe.
He sets me down on the counter and steps between my legs. I instinctively pull the towel closer around me, all too aware that I am naked, and he is very, very close. The realization makes a small spark ignite in my belly.
“Let me see your arm,” he says, gently lifting it and examining my elbow.
Bending, he retrieves a small first aid kit from under the sink and opens it, poking around until he finds what he’s looking for.
“This might sting,” he warns, and I nod my understanding as he presses an alcohol pad to the wound.
I hiss in a breath through my teeth, jerking slightly at the sting.
“Shhh,” he soothes.
His hips brush against my inner thighs as he swivels to examine the wound more closely. His face is a mask of concentration, brows furrowed, eyes focused, lips slightly pursed. He’s beautiful.
Leaning down, he blows gently on the wound, the air instantly calming the sting, until all that’s left is a dull ache, but I’m not focused on the pain anymore. My eyes catch on his pursed lips, on the way they part when he inhales, the way his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip.
The pain seems to evaporate, everything within me narrowing to that singular motion that I can’t tear my eyes away from.
What do his lips taste like?
The concern on Levi’s face catches my attention, and I reluctantly tear my gaze from his lips to meet his eyes.
“What?” I ask quietly.
My dirty thoughts are probably written all over my face, but I don’t care.
Maybe it’s the heat of the moment, the adrenaline pumping through my veins at my injury, or the fact that Levi is standing much closer to me than he ever has before, but my heart has taken off like a startled doe caught in the flash of headlights on a dark road.
I bet he can hear it pounding through my chest.
Is his just as erratic? Nothing but a thin towel separates us. Is he as desperate to touch me as I am to touch him?
“I need to look at your hip,” he replies patiently, his hands hovering over the towel, ready to pull it back as soon as I give the okay.
Our proximity, and the fact that I’m not wearing clothes, sends a flush over my entire body.
Patience and understanding settle over his features as he waits for my consent, as if he doesn’t want to push me or scare me away.
Like he wants me to take the time to decide on my own, regardless of what he wants.
I know if I were to push him away and scurry back to my own room to hide, he’d let me go.
And maybe that alone is what has my chin dipping in permission, the air caught in my lungs while I wait for his next move.
“Your left hip, right?” he asks, his voice soft and… breathless?
This is affecting him, too.
“Yeah.”
Slowly, he drops his hand from my elbow to the seam of the towel right between my legs. He’s still standing between my spread thighs, and as soon as he pulls back the towel, he’ll see how much my body has been aching for him.
The ache in my hip is secondary to the ache between my legs.
His fingertips graze the top of my thigh, sending bolts of electricity straight to my core.
My breathing picks up, my chest rising and falling rapidly, as the anticipation of his eyes on me sings through every nerve ending.
I’m a live wire, ready to ignite the moment his skin touches mine.
He pulls the towel back, exposing me to him, and he sucks in a sharp breath at what he sees. I watch him take me in for a moment, heart thundering, pulse racing, head spinning. His eyes darken, and he wets his lips like a lion preparing for a feast.
Neither of us seems to breathe, locked in this suspended moment together, the tension between us so palpable I could reach out and grasp it.
Those emerald eyes hold mine, saying so much more than his mouth ever could.
Then, without breaking eye contact, he takes a step back and gently swivels my body to expose my injured hip.
When he finally drops his gaze, releasing me from his spell, I breathe a sigh of… relief? Disappointment? Whatever it is, it sits like a lead weight in my throat.
I lick my lips and swallow thickly as his fingertips skim the bruise already forming on my skin.
“Did it hurt when I moved your leg?” he asks, clearing his throat. His touch is strictly clinical as he carefully assesses the area, prodding gently with his fingers and making me wince.
“It hurts when you press on it,” I whisper, my voice coming out in a croak. “But no, not when you moved my leg.”