15. Killian #2
“Thank you.” Her voice is soft, vulnerable in a way that has my insides twisting. “For taking care of me like this.”
I finish washing her legs, standing up carefully to avoid bumping into her. My cock is painfully hard now, straining against my boxer briefs, and I’m grateful for the steam that hopefully obscures her view if she peeks.
Now that her face isn’t in danger from the water stream, I gently pull her hands away.
“You don’t have to thank me, Isla. I’m the one who put you in this position.”
“Literally,” she says with a small laugh, and I can’t help but smile at her ability to find humor even now.
“Literally,” I agree, reaching past her to turn off the water. The sudden silence feels deafening, broken only by the sound of water droplets hitting the tile floor and our breathing.
“Okay, all done. Let’s get you dried off.”
I grab a towel and wrap it around her shoulders, my fingers brushing against her skin. The steam swirls between us, creating an intimacy that has my pulse racing. Isla looks up at me, her green eyes wide and vulnerable, her face swollen but still so beautiful.
“Killian,” she pleads.
I should step back. I should give her space. But I can’t seem to make my body obey. Instead, I find myself leaning closer, drawn to her like gravity.
She gasps softly as my face hovers inches from hers. I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin, see the droplets of water clinging to her eyelashes. My gaze drops to her lips, slightly parted, and every instinct in my body screams at me to close the distance between us.
I want to kiss her so badly it physically hurts.
But then I notice the slight wince when she shifts her weight to her uninjured leg.
Fuck.
I can’t do this.
Not like this.
She’s hurt, exposed, and completely at my mercy. The realization hits me like a bucket of ice water and I pull back abruptly, turning away to grab another towel from the rack. My cock is still painfully hard, and I adjust myself as discreetly as possible, hoping she doesn’t notice.
“I’ll get you some clean clothes,” I say, my voice coming out rougher than intended. “Just give me a minute.”
I practically flee the bathroom, closing the door behind me and leaning against it, my heart beating against my ribs.
The cool air of my bedroom hits my overheated skin, but it does nothing to calm the fire raging through my veins.
I press the heels of my palms against my eyes, trying to erase the image of Isla standing there in her wet underwear, looking at me like I’m the only person in the world who matters.
“Fuck.”
I grab a clean T-shirt and a pair of boxer briefs from my dresser, trying to focus on the task at hand rather than the ache in my groin. My hands shake slightly as I hold the clothes, and I take a deep breath, trying to center myself before going back in.
When I knock and enter, Isla has wrapped the towel around herself, her hair hanging in damp waves around her shoulders. The swelling on her cheek looks worse under the bright bathroom lights, and guilt crashes over me once again.
“Here,” I say, handing her the clothes. “They’ll be big, but they’ll do for one night so I can wash your other clothes.”
She takes the clothes from me, our fingers brushing briefly, and I feel that same electric jolt I’ve been trying to ignore all night.
“Thanks,” she says, her voice soft. “I’ll just...change in here?”
“Yeah. Of course.” I back out of the bathroom, pulling the door closed behind me. “I’ll be right out here.”
I lean against the wall outside the bathroom, running a hand through my damp hair.
My heart is still racing and my body is still wound tight with desire that I have no business feeling right now.
The image of Isla in that black lace bra is seared into my brain, and I know it’s going to haunt me for days.
“Motherfucker,” I mutter under my breath, pressing my forehead against the cool wall.
The bathroom door opens a few minutes later, and I straighten up, trying to look casual.
Isla emerges in my T-shirt, the fabric hanging past her thighs, the collar slipping off one shoulder.
My boxer briefs hidden beneath the shirt.
She looks small and vulnerable and so fucking beautiful it makes my whole body ache to hold her, comfort her, protect her.
“You look adorable in my shirt, Coach,” I tell her, trying to be cool, calm, and collected. “Feel better?”
She nods. “I definitely feel cleaner, yes.”
“Good. I’m just gonna hop in the shower and get myself cleaned up. Then how about I order some food and we can take it easy for the night, huh? Get comfy and watch some horrible television until we pass out. I’ll get you some painkillers and more ice to help keep that swelling down too.”
She smiles, though it’s not that full megawatt smile I’m used to. “I think that sounds nice.”
In the bathroom, I strip off my wet boxer briefs and step into the shower, turning the water as cold as I can stand it.
The shock helps, but not enough. I’m still painfully aroused, my body refusing to cooperate with my better judgment.
I squirt some body wash into my palm and then wrap it around my cock, my other hand gripping the shower wall as I jerk myself off to thoughts of Isla’s body against mine, her breath against my neck, her hands in my hair.
It doesn’t take long—I’m already wound so fucking tight—and when I finish, I press my forehead against the wall, guilt and relief warring inside me.
“Fucking hell,” I sigh, my words barely audible over the running water.
I finish my shower quickly, the cold water helping to clear my head.
By the time I’m dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt, I’ve managed to get my body back under control, even if my mind is still a mess.
Grabbing my phone from the counter, I take a minute to order some food and when I emerge from the bathroom, Isla is sitting on the edge of my bed, her legs dangling over the side.
The sight of her there, in my space, wearing my clothes, does something to my emotions that I’m not ready to examine.
“Food’s on the way,” I tell her. “I got us a bunch of chicken strips and French fries. Something easy so you won't have to work too hard. Oh, and some chocolate chip cookies because it’s a sin not to have cookies.”
“Perfect,” she says, watching me with those bright green eyes that seem to see right through me. “You didn’t have to order so much, though.”
“I know you didn’t eat at the park.” I sit down beside her, careful to leave enough space between us. “You need to eat something.”
The food arrives twenty minutes later, and I set everything up on a tray in the middle of my king-sized bed. Isla settles beside me, tucking her legs underneath her, my T-shirt riding up slightly to reveal the hem of my boxer briefs. I force my eyes away, focusing instead on the television remote.
“What do you want to watch?” I ask, flipping through channels.
“Something that doesn’t require thinking,” she says, taking a bite of a chicken strip. “My brain is too tired for anything complicated.”