19. Roman
Roman
The first thing I see is blood.
Not much, just enough to trigger a jolt of anxiety in my system. I rush across the yard, eyes fixed on the figure standing by the damaged fence. “What the hell happened?” I yell.
Taylor glances around at me, his right hand clutching his left forearm. He flashes a grim smile, but I see the pain in his eyes. “It’s nothing.”
“The hell it’s not.” Seeing red trickling through his fingers increases my concern. I shift aside his uninjured hand, examining the wound. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s just a scratch,” Taylor mutters, attempting to pull his arm away.
“Not from where I’m standing.” A small gash interrupts the smooth stretch of skin, a crimson line stark against his pale flesh. For all I know, it could already have an infection. Goddamnit. I can almost picture Natasha’s disapproving face.
Taylor rolls his eyes, which only irritates me. I’d spent the last four hours telling him to take it easy. Did the fucker listen?
Ever since I told him what his father had done, Taylor has been working himself to the bone. I suspect it’s from misplaced guilt. I shouldn’t complain because I need the extra hand, anyway. But I don’t want him to get hurt at my expense.
Clicking my tongue impatiently, I rest his right hand over the wound again. I’d rather Jude handle this, but it’s his day off. He headed into town early this morning for God knows what, and there’s no telling when he’ll be home.
“House. Now,” I snap at Taylor.
He opens his mouth, possibly to argue. I shoot him a glare. He snaps it shut. With a pivot, he storms toward the back door. Rubbing the tightness in my chest, I follow him. Lord knows I’m not cut out to take care of anyone.
But I’m thinking of painkillers and whether we have an ointment that doesn’t sting by the time I enter the kitchen. I open the top cupboard, rummaging inside, trying to remember the last time we used the first-aid kit. I should probably call Jude.
“For someone who seemed determined not to coddle me, you’re doing the opposite,” Taylor points out. Defiance laces his tone, but his expression reveals discomfort.
“Sit.” I jerk my head toward the nearest stool.
He sighs. The stool legs scrape against wood as he pulls it from the breakfast bar with his foot. He plops onto the seat, grimacing at me. “Satisfied?”
I resume digging in the cupboard. “I’ll be satisfied when you stop bleeding on my goddamn floor,” I grumble, moving a large metal bowl aside. The first-aid kit stares back at me.
“You literally forced me in here. Besides, the blood is already starting to clot. The chance of me bleeding on your stupid floor is—“
His eyes narrow when I press two fingers against his lips. “Not another word.”
A sharp scoff leaves his mouth, but he says nothing.
I rest the kit on the counter next to him, the restriction in my chest making it hard to breathe.
I don’t know why the sight of him being injured rattles me so much.
Sure, I promised his mother I’d take care of him, but he’s right.
The wound is not that serious. I take out disinfectant and gauze from the kit. “Arm.”
Taylor extends the uninjured arm. He chuckles mildly at my stony gaze. “What? You didn’t say which one.”
Silence. He looks me up and down. “Seems as if you’re the one in pain, not me,” he mutters.
At my continued deadpan stare, he offers his left hand. I clutch his wrist. His skin is so warm, his pulse steadily beating beneath my fingers. My heartbeat soon becomes a problem. I try to focus on the injured arm, but every fiber of my being is aware of the man attached to it.
The disinfectant touches broken skin, and he hisses.
I ignore him, mostly because I’m trying hard not to notice how close we are.
His floral scent makes it impossible. It gets more difficult when he starts squirming on the stool, and I must be insane for envying a piece of furniture.
I must be crazy for wanting him to squirm on my lap instead.
Hell, I want him to do more than squirm on my lap.
An image of him bent over on the counter assaults me. I reach for the roll of gauze, my hand quivering. Taylor jerks as I wrap it around his wrist. “Hold still,” I growl impatiently.
“This is a little too much, don’t you think?” he asks.
“A simple band-aid won’t do. Trust me, you don’t want bacteria getting into it. I know I don’t.“ I could probably kiss Natasha’s investment goodbye if her son returns home with an infection.
“Aww.” He tuts. “It sounds as if you care.”
I lift my gaze. He’s watching me. A teasing smirk tugs on his lips, but his eyes tell a different story. I’ve been on this earth long enough to know the look of a man who’s aroused.
And just like that, the kitchen starts feeling too small. Too warm. My body comes alive. The fantasy resurfaces of Taylor naked on that counter, taking every inch of my cock.
“Be honest. You care,” he teases.
“Do you think that’s what this is?”
“Isn’t it?” He cocks his head, giving me another once-over that makes me glad I’m wearing loose jeans. “I could’ve done this myself.”
I shift my gaze. If I didn’t, I’d probably say something stupid. Something dangerous.
Something honest.
Instead, I resume wrapping the bandage. One turn. Two. Three. My fingers brush against his skin. The contact only lasts for a second, but it still feels like a mistake—or maybe temptation.
Because all I want to do is touch him again.
Fuck my fucking life.
“You’re mad,” Taylor breaks the silence.
“I’m not.”
“Bullshit. You have a tell. When you get mad, your eyebrows bunch together, and you grind your teeth,” he says. “You’re doing it now.”
His voice carries a flirty edge that sends a sliver of awareness up my spine.
I tie off the bandage. The air feels heavy and charged.
A sense of danger sets off a warning in my head.
Glancing up, I meet his stare once more.
Those goddamn blue eyes, making me forget myself every time.
I release his hand. “Maybe I am,” I reply.
“I told you not to handle the equipment without supervision. You could have lost your hand.”
“You were busy.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What’s the point, then?”
The question comes softly. Too softly. Definitely flirty. Something hot and violent flutters in my belly. It’s hard to ignore what I’ve been dancing around since he got here—the same thing that has been keeping me up at night.
Walk away, Roman.
Instead, I keep staring at Taylor, at his stubborn jaw, messy hair, and those lips that trigger the unholiest of thoughts. The room falls silent. Outside, the wind rattles the front porch. Inside, I can hear my pulse.
Walk the fuck away.
Taylor swallows, his Adam’s apple bouncing.
A motion that should mean nothing, but it’s like striking a match.
Now, all I’m thinking about is licking and sucking his throat.
My control unravels even more when he glances down at his wrist, then back at me.
I’ve spent forty-five years on this earth.
Yes, I know when a man wants me to fuck him.
Problem is, Taylor is the last person I should want.
“Don’t.”
He wets his lips. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at me like that.”
The words come out rougher than I intend.
A faint blush creeps up his cheeks, making me wish I could rewind this conversation.
Because now, there’s no pretending. I can’t hide behind my grumpiness.
Our mutual attraction sits between us. Visible.
Breathing. Alive as fuck. For a moment, neither of us moves.
I’m not sure I’m capable. I can’t remember the last time I wanted something so badly.
But it would be a huge mistake to surrender.
Finally, I force myself to step back. Distance. I fucking need distance. Losing proximity feels painful, but necessary. I drag my hand through my hair. “You’re all patched up.”
Taylor glances down at the bandage, then back at me. “That’s it?”
I read the message in his eyes. A low, strained laugh escapes me. The words slip out before I can stop them. “If you had any idea how much self-control I’m using right now, you wouldn’t ask that.”
His eyes widen slightly. I close mine for half a second. Too goddamn late. The truth is finally out. Those are only words, though. I haven’t done anything.
But as we stare at each other, I know with absolute certainty there will be no coming back from this. Not after seeing the same hunger reflected in Taylor’s eyes. Not after realizing these pants have failed to hide my lust for him.
Clearing my throat, I jerk my head toward the first-aid kit. “There are painkillers if the discomfort gets too unbearable,” I say.
“Thanks,” he mutters to my back, and I don’t miss the disappointment in his voice. Not for the first time—maybe not for the last time, either—I wish he were someone else. Having an intense attraction to someone I can’t have is a terrible feeling to endure.
Then again, it won’t be for much longer. Soon, Taylor will be going home. Soon, this attraction will be a distant memory. Life will go back to normal.
But as I step through the back door, I’m not sure that will ever be the case—
“You’re such a goddamn hypocrite.”
Whipping around, I meet Jude’s knowing smirk.