Chapter 8 #2
Claiming the seat in front of her, I wait a couple of minutes for the whiskey to kick in.
She had a heavy pour. Honestly, I figured she’d sip it for an hour.
But now, it’ll hit her system pretty quickly.
Once I’m sure it has and she’s slightly numb, I kneel in front of her and finally take a look at that knee.
My hand sneaks around the back of her upper thigh, and she gasps, the sound making my jaw clench and my pants feel like an uncomfortable accessory.
I slide my other hand just below her knee, moving it gently, only to hear a pop.
She jolts in the chair, and I don’t know if she's in pain or if she’s just uncomfortable with me touching her.
My mind refuses to believe the second part, especially since she seems much more cooperative now than when we got on the plane.
I stretch and fold her leg a couple of times, my movements so gentle, they even surprise me. I know she's in pain, but I really need to assess the damage.
I keep moving her leg gently and her mouth slowly parts. I can sense she wants to say something. She’s just not sure if she should really say it or stay quiet.
My eyes look up, my gaze gentler this time, waiting to see what it is. And she finally finds the nerve to speak. "Can I please call the homeowners? They've been good to me. I need to let them know there's no one there anymore."
"I'll get you a phone to text them. Tell them you had a family emergency and you’re not coming back. Also, tell them to keep your last paycheck. That’ll keep them from bothering you.
" I say, sliding my hand up on the back of her leg.
"Take a deep breath. I have to put this back while I still can.
" She instantly stiffens, her hands grasping the arms of the seat like she’s holding on for dear life.
I flex her leg a few more times to loosen the joint, then quickly pull until I hear that pop again.
She cries out and lifts another glass of whiskey to her lips while I start massaging her leg up and down to ease the pain.
"Breathe. It's okay now. I only need to clean the wound.
" My hands keep working up and down, warming the flesh.
Her chest rises and falls with rapid breaths as she starts to calm down, just a little.
Not for long, though. The movement hiked her dress, and I discovered she might have left a little piece of lingerie behind.
She seems to lack panties, and that makes the situation a hell of a lot harder.
If things were different, I might’ve smiled and let my fingers wander, until I’d end up knuckles-deep in that tight pussy. But I don't think I'm able to smile anymore, she took that away from me. I just stare at her, probably like some madman, as she yanks her dress down to cover herself.
I brush the thought away, even though, this too, has an all too obvious reaction in my pants.
"Set," she whispers, her voice trembling like she’s having trouble speaking. "I’m sorry."
"Not yet, but you will be," I snarl back, making it clear now’s not a good time for apologies.
To drive the point home, I pour alcohol on a cloth and press it to her wound.
It stings like hell, and she squirms in the seat, trying to fight the pain—maybe even trying to fight me so I would let go of her leg, which I don't. I just push her back down on the seat, keeping the cloth there, making sure it's disinfected.
She doesn't say a word, though. She understands this is a necessity and not a punishment. She’ll know when I start punishing her.
I look at her wound, and I still don't like the looks of it.
It's not deep enough to need stitches, but it's wide enough to bother me.
I'm not sure the alcohol did the trick, and I can’t risk it getting infected.
"I'm going to have to pour some peroxide on it," I say, announcing the next round of torture.
I really wouldn't be doing it if it weren't necessary.
But I've seen people die from untreated scratches, and I won’t let her leave me like that.
"This is going to hurt a lot more than the alcohol.
But I have to do it. You understand?" I ask since I'm not sure if she's still with me between the whiskey and the pain.
She nods. She knows this will sting a lot worse than the whiskey, and I can see how scared she is.
"If you hadn't run away from me, you wouldn't be in this mess now.
" I remind her that she is the one who did it to herself, not me. I do have some guilt for chasing her around, but who would’ve thought she would be clumsy enough to break her damn knee?
I twist the cap off the bottle, and she stares at me in terror. I still have to do this to make sure she’ll be okay.
I slide a towel under her knee, stretching her leg to my lap. I'm trying not to be a dick about things, at least for the next two or three minutes.
She takes another sip from the glass, eyes flickering with anxiety.
"Ready?" I ask, and she nods, mostly because I don't think she has the power to speak anymore.
My chest tightens as I pour the peroxide over her raw skin, and I can hear how it's bubbling deep into the wound. She doesn't cry out this time; she just leans forward, her arms wrapping around my neck for support, as slow whimpers reach my ear.
I’d have to be stone cold not to try and comfort her, and as much as she deserves it, I just can’t stop myself from trying to ease her pain.
My hands run up her hips all the way to her ass, then back down beneath her knees, a couple of times, squeezing to ignite any other sensation but that damn pain.
"You're doing so well, Serena. Just a little bit more and it’ll be over.
I promise." My hands go up and down, becoming bolder with each move, more eager to explore her body.
Her whimpers are still there, softer, but enough to drive me mad. And I don't even know when my hands drift between her legs. My fingers brush her sensitive skin until I feel how wet she really is—even after nearly passing out from the pain.
I'll be damned. The pain turned her on.
I know she likes it a little rough, but this was well beyond any reasonable limit. Yet, here she is, dripping all over my hand.
My fingers begin moving, turning her whimpers into soft moans, so seductive it makes me consider making her join the mile-high club. Her breasts move up and down from her ragged breath, and she's so damn hot in this moment that I’d be the one selling my soul to the devil to have her.
"Fucking Hell," I groan, spreading her wetness across her entire core so she can feel what I'm doing to her.
I almost lose it, and I’m one step away from repeating this morning. But I won't let her fool me again. She needs to pay, and I just figured out how to make her do that. This might be her worst punishment, even if I have to take a little punishment for myself.
I adjust her skirt as I pull away from her, catching the flush on her face as she sinks back into her seat.
"I have to bandage it. Then I'm done." Even I'm surprised by the coldness of my tone. But I force myself to shut it all down and go from aroused to indifferent.
I'm still careful not to hurt her as I bandage the wound. I'll have to keep an eye on it over the next few days, but for now, it looks decent enough. I don't want to stay next to her a second longer. I can't stay next to her—at least not now, when I’m this close to losing control.
I get up as soon as I'm done, like something from within me is chasing me away.
But before I walk away, she grabs my arm, those big blue eyes staring up at me.
"I made a mistake," she says, her voice shaking.
And it's not because of the alcohol. I know exactly what she's talking about—she regrets leaving.
Yes, she will regret it for a very long time.
I look at her, almost inexpressively, trying to be as calm as I can, given the fact that I’d betrayed every single belief I ever held; for this woman. "No. I’m the one who made the mistake," I say, then return to my seat, where I stay for the rest of the ten-hour flight.