Chapter 7 #2
She placed the gun in her other hand and turned it over. She and Serena had learned to shoot as teenagers. Milo, Serena’s fiancé, had taught them both. She hadn’t held the foreign object in almost a decade, but her brain acted on memory and switched the safety on. Then she placed it on her lap.
“What else happened at the library?” She let her gaze travel up his body.
Seeing the dark red liquid coating his right bicep, she gasped and slapped her hand to her mouth.
“You’re shot!” She stretched across the console and snagged his elbow.
In all the emotion of the last few minutes, she hadn’t noticed the blossoming stain a few shades darker than the material of his long-sleeved shirt.
He winced, and tendons jumped under his skin. “Yeah, it hurts like a bitch.”
“We need to clean it.” She pinched the material of his shirt and shifted it to better see the wound. He jerked and she cringed. “Sorry.”
“I have a small first aid kit in my suitcase. It probably looks worse than it is.”
She curled her fingers away from his arm and pressed her back against the seat.
Nausea sloshed inside of her with every turn.
He’d been shot because of her. A few more inches to the left and the bullet would have hit him in the chest. A cold chill rippled over her skin.
If he’d died, she’d have been alone, stranded in Geneva with people trying to kill her and the formula to a virus that could wipe out half the world’s population .
. . and she would have had to endure living in a world without him.
He pulled up to the hotel and drove down the ramp to the parking garage.
“Aren’t you going to use the valet?”
“No. I want to know where my car is in case we need to leave quickly. And I don’t want anyone to see my arm if I can help it.”
“Good point. We’d stick out like a sore thumb.”
He drove down another ramp and parked. Dani gravitated to Brock’s side as they got out, hoping to block his arm from view, but the top of her head barely reached the wound. He chuckled and wrapped his right arm around her shoulders as he yanked open the door to the stairwell with his left hand.
“If you don’t mind getting blood in your hair, this will work—but only if you play along.”
Her cheeks warmed. Footsteps sounded from the floor above as they climbed the stairs. He lowered his face to her ear. “You look like my hostage right now.”
She laughed and intertwined her fingers with his over her shoulder.
She kept her gaze pointed at her feet as they ascended.
The woman moving toward the parkade mumbled a greeting in German as she passed.
By the time they’d reached the eighth floor, Dani’s legs burned.
She opened the door and they moved down the hall to their room.
Brock kept his arm slung around her as he towed her into their suite. He reached for the gun at his back and held it at his thigh. He left her side to sweep the room and then returned to the entrance, where she waited.
Kicking off her shoes, she dropped into a crouch beside his suitcase. “Where’s the first aid kit?”
“Inside zipper.” He removed his shoes and walked into the bedroom, flipping on the light. She grabbed the small vinyl bag, opened it, and scanned the contents. Gauze, antiseptic, sewing needle . . .
The rustling of Brock’s shirt dropping to the ground stopped her.
She lifted her gaze and it landed on his reflection in the mirror opposite the bed.
Hard, rippled muscle covered every inch of his tanned upper body.
His abdomen sported an eight-pack, and two tapered lines of oblique muscles disappeared into his pants. The moisture left her mouth.
Dear lord.
Heat hummed to the flesh between her legs, and she squeezed her pelvic muscles to stop the throbbing. It didn’t help. She wet her lips and cleared her throat. His focus moved from the reflection of his arm to her face in the mirror.
Something had changed in his eyes. He turned around so they were face-to-face.
Fatigue etched the lines around his mouth, making them appear deeper, and some of the color had vanished from his cheeks.
He sat on the bed and stretched his legs out in front of him.
His pectoral muscles flexed with every movement, and her fingers twitched with the need to stroke the smooth skin and puckered brown nipples.
His hot, unwavering gaze seared her to the spot.
Her throat tickled with the need for water.
“You going to fix this up for me?” Humor sparked in his eyes.
She pinched her lips together. If she spoke, her voice would quake with need.
She sat next to him, retrieved the items she’d need from the kit, and laid them on the bed.
His eyes followed the movement of her hands.
His warm, masculine fragrance—a hint of pine mixed with sweat—collided with her senses.
She inched closer, placed her hand under his wound, and turned his bicep every which way.
“Looks like a graze.”
“Mmm.”
“Still bled a lot.” She cleared her throat.
“I need towels.” She went to the bathroom and wet a hand towel then grabbed a dry one from the rack above the toilet.
She returned to the bed and kept her attention on the wound and not the delicious, trembling mass of man next to her.
Trembling wasn’t the word. Vibrating? It was as if his body’s frequency intensified the closer she got.
“Hold still.” She took the wet cloth and mopped up the blood, making the wound more visible. Her hand shook as she reached for the antiseptic, and he grabbed the bottle. His warm hand circled hers, sending pulsations of pleasure along her nerve endings.
“Let me do that.”
She jerked it out of reach and tightened the hold of her hand on his arm. “No way. It needs to be cleaned properly.”
“I’ll clean it. I don’t want you taking out your revenge on my wounded state.” One nicely shaped eyebrow lifted, and knots formed in her belly. His mouth slanted into a playful grin, but he kept his hand out waiting for the bottle.
She cocked her head to the side. “Does that sound like something I would do?” She batted her eyelashes and raised her voice an octave in mock innocence.
“I have a feeling it would give you sick pleasure.”
She positioned the bottle above his wound and gave him an impish smirk. “Ready?”
He huffed out a breath. “Go. I deserve it.”
She sucked back the questions she wanted to ask.
Now wasn’t the time to discuss the past, but her brain analyzed his words.
Was he showing remorse? Apologizing? All that would do was ease his conscience.
But at the same time, he’d jumped to her aid.
But did that mean he still cared about her?
Dammit. She didn’t want him to. Didn’t want the reminder of what had been lost between them.
Fresh anger singed her ego like salt on a wound.
She squeezed the bottle and the clear liquid shot out and ran over the gouge in his flesh.
He made a hissing sound and dropped his head back to stare at the ceiling while she continued to clean the wound.
A muscle jumped at the line of his jaw and his abdomen bunched into hard layers.
Clear red fluid rolled down his arm to the cloth she held circled around his bicep.
She pulled the bottle away and he let out a breath.
“There. All clean.” She bandaged the wound and plucked the bloodstained towel from his arm. His hand circled her wrist and she froze. Warning bells sounded in her head. She kept her gaze trained on the crisp white duvet cover but didn’t pull out of his reach.
“Sending you into that bathroom was the scariest thing I’ve ever done.” Gravel chipped away at the usual confident timber of his voice, giving away the sincerity of his words.
She rolled her lips in, took a steadying breath, and met his stare.
His face hovered only inches from hers. So close.
So warm. The soft flesh of his lips called her and her loins ached for his touch.
Memories of his leisurely kisses on her skin flashed through her mind.
His eyes never left her face, and a deep pull from her solar plexus urged her to let down at least one chunk of the guard around her heart.
“It scared me leaving you there,” she whispered.
His fingers moved from her wrist and brushed over her cheek. “I know we don’t have things figured out. Maybe we never will. But fuck me, I can’t get over you.” His throat bobbed on a swallow. “No matter how hard I try.”
The world tilted beneath her. She reached for the ever-growing stubble on his jaw and traced her nails over the raspy hair.
His fingers threaded into the strands of hair at the nape of her neck, and he tilted her head back.
His mouth brushed over her cheek first then landed on her lips.
She let her fingers roam down his chest to his taut nipple and his abs.
His lips moved over hers, slow and coaxing.
Fire roared in her belly and the flames engulfed her blood.
She arched into him and pushed her tongue past his teeth.
His heat filled her mouth, sending a thrill through the synapses of her brain.
He caught her hips and lifted her onto his lap.
His hands traveled her back in smoothing strokes then pressed against the small of her back so her groin snuggled against the rock-hard bulge in his pants.
She panted against him and her body shuddered with need under the ministrations of his tongue against hers.
Holy freaking shit.