CHAPTER 24
Evander
“Hold still while I finish sewing you up.”
“I’m trying. I really wish I could see what you’re doing back there.”
“Tell me about it. I wish I could see what I’m doing, too.”
Phoebe is sprawled out on her belly on the old wooden table, which I’ve moved closer to the fire.
I discovered that the blood was coming from a three-inch gash on her bottom.
Not especially deep, but deep enough that it needs to be stitched up, especially since it’s a part of the body that gets a lot of action.
Sitting. Sitting action.
“Should we move the table back under the window? Natural light is always best.”
“No. Any closer to the window will be too cold and you’re shivering as it is. Please try to stay still for me.”
“Don’t pull the sutures too tight. It could damage the skin. And remember to double knot each stitch.”
“As I believe I’ve mentioned many times already, I trained in combat casualty response. I know how to sew up a flesh wound.”
“Fine.”
After I noticed the blood, I saw that she had a small tear in the seat of her leggings.
I found corresponding slices in the fabric of her coveralls and underwear that I hadn’t previously noticed.
She was sliced open by a shard of ice, most likely.
I’ve thoroughly cleaned and disinfected the cut and am now sewing it up.
Phoebe turns her head to the side to rest a cheek on her crossed arms. When she does this, her long brown hair brushes over my sweater, which she’s still wearing. And I’m grateful for that.
Because I don’t want to see her naked back. It’s bad enough that I can see the two little dimples over her naked ass, and the naked ass itself.
Which I’m fairly certain ranks No. 1 among all the naked asses I’ve ever had the pleasure of spending quality time with. Not that this is fun for either of us. I can think of a dozen super fun things I’d rather be doing with her on her belly and me standing behind her.
She wiggles.
“Stop moving.”
I’m doing my best not to stare at the two luscious swells of flesh right here in front of me. And the curve of her hips and the soft, creamy skin of her upper thighs.
Most of all, I’m trying not to look at the juncture of those thighs because I have a pretty good idea she’s hiding a pussy that’s as soft and sweet as the rest of her.
So much for trying. I’m failing. This is pure torture.
I’m glad these surgical gloves keep my fingertips away from her bare skin. One touch and I’d probably have to run screaming into the storm to protect my sanity.
And her innocence.
A ferocious gust of wind rattles the side of the shack.
“You good, Phoebe?”
“Yes, but I’m worried that your fingers may be too beefy for this kind of delicate work.”
“Beefy.”
“You know, thick. You have very thick fingers.”
I’m about to hyperventilate, because I want to put those thick fingers where they don’t belong.
“Phoebe, I’m closing up a simple laceration of your right butt cheek, not performing intricate eyelid surgery or something. It’s not like anyone will ever see this scar.”
“Really? No one? Ever?”
“Not a lot of people. You know what I mean.”
“Well, on the off chance someone might actually want to look at my bottom one day, it’d be nice if it wasn’t mangled. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Are you always a total pain in the ass, Travis?”
I hear her chuckle. “Actually, it’s my ass and my pain, and you’re to blame.”
I’m glad she can’t see me smile. “Do you need more numbing gel? I can grab some from in the first aid kit. I’ve got two more stitches to go.”
“No. But I wish you’d hurry up.”
“Why don’t you have another sip of whiskey? It might chill you the fuck out.”
She giggles. “I can’t actually sip it, since it’s the consistency of a convenience store slushy. I need a straw.”
“We’re all trying to make do here, Phoebe.”
She raises her head and sucks down a mouthful from the mug. I can hear her crunching on the still partially frozen alcohol, which means it’s been cut with water at some point.
“Where did you find this stuff, anyway?”
“In the back room hidden behind the blanket chest, where it’s as cold as Yeti’s—” I stop myself from finishing.
“You can say it. I won’t be offended.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Okay, so how about this? It’s so cold that I saw a lawyer with his hands in his own pockets!”
“A classic.”
“It’s not the best whisky I’ve ever tasted, just an FYI.”
“I sure hope not, since it was unearthed in a remote surveyor’s shack in the middle of Bumfuck, Nevada, and the price tag features the numbers 4, 9, and 5, in that order, and there’s a decimal point after the 4.”
“You get what you pay for, as they say.” She crunches some more. “I bet you like the expensive stuff. The good stuff.”
“I like the best stuff.”
She turns her head again to rest the opposite cheek on her folded arms. Once more, her thick waves swish across the back of my cashmere sweater. It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.
She’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.
Uh, what?
I’m stunned. Sure, I’m tempted by her naked ass. What man wouldn’t be? But that’s not the thought that just went through my mind.
I’ve decided that Phoebe Travis, the virgin, is erotic. Sexy. Carnal. And more so than anyone I’ve ever seen, which is saying something, since I’ve known a lot of seriously hot women.
How the fuck did I come to this conclusion? When the fuck did this occur to me?
Just now, apparently. Right this moment.
And I think I know why—I want what I can’t have. I can’t have her. Not here. Not under these circumstances. And so I’ve built her up in my mind as the object of unparalleled lust.
I wish this fucking blizzard would burn itself out.
“Well?” Phoebe asks.
“Well, what?”
That came out sharper than it needed to because, for an instant, I worried that she was reading my mind.
“Sorry,” I say. “I got distracted. Yes, the good stuff. The best stuff.”
But it’s more than wanting what I can’t have. Phoebe is something very special.
She’s kind. Sweet. Funny. Concerned about the well-being of others more than what others think of her. She’s strong, physically and mentally. Brave. Gritty. Insightful. Adaptable.
And that’s before I even begin with the beautiful part. The things that make me suck air between my teeth every time I look at her.
Phoebe’s a natural-born smoke show, from head to toe.
Nothing about her is artificial, filled, enhanced, sculpted, or painted on. Her face is strikingly feminine and soft. Her eyes are soulful and expressive, and her mouth—that fucking mouth—is made for kissing.
And more.
She’s a good ten inches shorter than me, so around five-feet-six. She’s athletic but unmistakably feminine, thick in all the right places. Including the bomb-diggity ass and thighs I’m staring at right now.
Her full breasts are round and firm, with delicate nipples I suspect are pink now that she’s not in the throes of hypothermia. I tried my best not to look at her breasts. Or her nipples. Or even think about the fact that she has nipples. I failed.
“Go on. I’m dying of curiosity. What are some of Evander MacLaine’s favorite things in the whole world?”
You. You’re becoming one of my favorite things. Along with your ass, thighs, breasts, face, mouth…
I need to wrap this up.
“If I tell you, will you stop moving your head around and stop jiggling your foot? I’d like to finish this so you can get dressed and warm up. I know you’re cold.”
“Deal.”
“All right. I’ll start with the non-material things.”
“Your family?”
“Yes. Without them, the material shit’s meaningless. So, first and foremost is my big, loud, in-your-face family and everyone close to us.”
“Except for Special K, who doesn’t say much of anything.”
I laugh. “That’s true, but when he does say shit, he makes up for lost time.”
“I know what you mean,” she says with another giggle.
That comment gives me pause. Something bugs me about it, but I can’t put my finger on it. I continue. “The ranch itself is family, too. The land. It defines the MacLaines. It’s our history.”
“I get that. It’s the same for Travis Ranch.”
“And my SEAL buddies and law school friends. The collection of the world’s people I’ve had the honor to experience, along with the unbelievable variety of food, art, music, dance, and literature they’ve produced.”
“Okay.”
“And silence. I love me some silence. And a good sunset, especially while soaking in the mineral springs. Oh, and I can’t forget the pleasure of a fast horse.”
She’s chuckling again. “Those are all wonderful things.”
“Last stitch.”
“What else?”
“Well, I appreciate the best clothing made by the best tailors using the best fabrics.”
“I already know that.”
“And Italian shoes.”
“Like the ones you messed up pushing me off the curb. I know that, too.”
“I like my house. It’s impeccably furnished, and everything is exactly the way I like it. I designed it myself.”
“I know. It’s a beautiful home. Maybe the most beautiful I’ve ever been inside.”
I’m about to ask when she was inside my house when I remember. Of course. She was there a lot in the spring when she went above and beyond to help me after surgery.
When she stayed by my side. Made me steak and eggs. Put fresh flowers on my bedside table. And checked that I was comfortable.
She did all this at a time when I was not a pleasant human being to be around. Even worse than usual.
Suddenly, I have to force myself to focus on the last stitch, because I hear a loud click! in my brain as the pieces fall into place.
Phoebe is loyal to me. She cares for me. For real.
She knows me. She knows my world. My colorful family. My quirks. I don’t have to explain jack shit to her. She already understands.
And she likes me anyway. She’s got a crush on me. She may even think she’s in love with me.
Nope.
Now’s not the time to have an existential crisis, not with a needle in my hand and the storm of the century bearing down on us. Not after I swore I wouldn’t mangle the beautifully sculpted bottom that’s been entrusted to my care.
“Keep going.”
“That’s enough. I’ve finished with the sutures. Hold still while I add ointment and get a bandage in place.”
“Okay. But tell me more while you’re finishing up.”
“I’d rather not.”
“All right.”
I know I’m coming off as a dick, but I don’t care. I work quickly, knowing that I need to get her bandaged and covered up before I do something stupid.
Something incredibly fucking stupid.
Because at the moment, I’m feeling like I can’t trust myself, and I always trust myself.
No matter what.