Epilogue #6
She presses down on the skin, and pain shudders out from the point of contact. Still, I make no sound. She frowns, presses around a little more. "Does it hurt?"
Yes.
I shake my head. I’m not lying. I can bear it.
She shoots me a disbelieving look from under her eyelashes. Then presses down harder. This time I hiss out a breath.
"So, it does hurt?"
"Just do what you need to," I say through gritted teeth. Sweat beads on my brow. She is hurting me. Just not where she imagines. It’s her touch turning my blood to lava, and kicking up my pulse rate, and bringing visions of how it would be to lift her up and divest her of those shapeless scrubs that do nothing to disguise the lush curves of her body and throw her down on the examination table.
But I don’t do that. Obviously, I hope nothing of my thoughts shows on my face.
But she must hear something in my words because her movements speed up.
Some more digging in with her fingers, which sends little points of pain racing under my skin, and she nods.
"No ribs broken; only bruised. So, you won’t need an X-ray.
You do need stitches for this, too, however. "
Then she reaches over to grab the antiseptic spray from the counter. The curve of her waist brushes my thigh, and I’m so turned on I could come from the contact. Damn.
Then I’m gasping for air, this time for real, as she sprays antiseptic on my wound.
I manage to not cry out. Which means, hopefully, I don’t dispel the notions of my macho attitude and pain thresholds which I’ve struggled to impress her with.
Then she straightens. "Close your eyes."
I do, and she sprays the antiseptic on the cut over my eyebrow. Then on the one on my lower lip. The resulting burn is barely a twinge.
Eyes still closed, I sense her walk around and over to one of the shelves.
I open my eyes in time to see her bringing over a steel tray with tools.
I assume she’s going to stitch me up. I’m proven right when she asks me to lay down.
I stretch out and continue watching her, using the time to survey her features.
After the days of watching her from afar, I can’t believe I’m this close to her.
She bends over to inject an anesthetic to numb the space around the cut on my eyebrow.
I inhale her scent—cherry blossoms and roses, with a hint of vanilla.
It’s heady and further exacerbates the lust lancing through my veins.
My fingers tingle with the need to touch her, but I manage to keep my hands to myself and let her get on with the job of stitching me up.
She finishes stitching my forehead, then turns toward the gash in my side.
When she touches the abraded skin around the wound with the cotton, I can’t stop the groan which boils up my throat.
“Sorry,” she murmurs without looking up. Goosebumps pepper her skin. Interesting. And reassuring to know she feels this connection between us. That though her touch is professional the impact on her is far from.
I sense her breathing roughen. Then she gets ahold of herself and begins to clean the wound. She follows the same protocol, numbing the space before she stitches it up.
All too soon, she’s done. Cutting off the thread, she steps back.
"Keep the stitches dry. They should start dissolving within ten days. You’ll have a scar, though." She pulls off her disposable gloves and drops them in the bin. "It’s only going to add to your good looks, I’m sure."
"You think I’m good looking?" I swing my legs over the side and sit up.
She stiffens, then rubbing antiseptic onto her hands, turns to me. "You know you are."
"It still means a lot to me to know that you think so too."
Her expression turns cautious. "Why is that?"
"Because I think you’re, possibly, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen."
She flushes, her eyes grow wide, then she tosses her head.
"It’s probably gratitude for having stitched you up that’s kicking in.
" She pulls out a tablet from her pocket and her fingers fly over the surface.
“You're going to need to use a prophylactic antibiotic. A prescription has been sent to the hospital pharmacy. You can pick it up there. Make sure you apply it daily until the wounds are healed.” She pockets her device, hooks her stethoscope around her neck, and moves toward the curtains drawn around the cubicle.
I should let her go. This is totally unprofessional, but I can’t stop myself from snaking out my hand and wrapping my fingers around her wrist. "You never told me your first name."
She stiffens, then stares down at my fingers, before looking up at me. "You’re overstepping the doctor-patient relationship."
"You’ve treated me; that relationship is now over." I hold onto her for a few seconds more. Then, I slowly retract my hand. "Your name"—I soften my tone—"please."
She hesitates, then a small smile curves her lips. "You’re a resourceful man, Mr. Davenport. I’m sure you can find it out another way."
To find out what happens next read Connor and Phoenix's story in The Wrong Husband
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