wince.
“Sorry, but I've gotta do it, those animals might have rabies...” He smiles, trying to make me smile too. But I'm not in the mood for smiling.
“Call Jase back, make something up. What will he think? The both of us gone?”
He stops his dabbing and looks at me.
“Does it matter to you, what he thinks?”
I open my mouth to reply and then shut it again. Sean continues his gentle, stinging, disinfecting of my skin. I don't want to answer his question, because actually, I realize, I don't care, and that makes me sound cold.
“Are you up to talking?” he asks, and his eyes flick up to mine.
“I guess so.”
“I'm hurt you ran away from me.”
“Did I? I can't remember.” Of course I do remember. Everything. But I don't want to. The whole damn party can just evaporate from my memory as far as I'm concerned.
“I'm feeling partly to blame for what happened to you, because I was the one who forced you out there, wasn't I?”
“No, it's not your fault.” My eyes fill at his suggestion of feeling guilt over what happened to me. “It was a random event—just one of those awful things. If anyone was to blame, it was me, for going out the back, instead of the front, and putting myself in a potentially dangerous situation.”
“God...no...look, I'm sorry...forget I said that. I don't want to upset you even more. You've had enough hassle for one night.”
“I'm just so tired.” I hang my head in exhaustion.
“You've every right to be,” he says, as he puffs out a noisy breath.
He dabs me dry with the fluffy towel and carefully smears a little soothing, pleasantly scented cream on my injuries. I'm mesmerized as he wraps the end of my finger, so neatly, with some little bandages.
I look at him in a daze. I really could kiss him, simply for being so goddamn wonderful, for saving me from certain rape and looking after me so well.
“How's your hand?” I ask, looking at the tinge of redness across his knuckles. That punch must have hurt him like hell.
“He flexes his fingers. “A little sore, I guess. It's nothing.”
He clears away the water and towel and then returns to my side.
“Can I take a look at your dress, I can probably fix it.”
“You can fix my dress?” I say in disbelief.
“I'm a real handy guy. You'd be amazed at some of my domestic talents.”
He leaves the room again, and I slip my dress off my bottom half to my feet. I sit there decently covered with my big towel.
He returns with some scissors, and a sewing kit.
He sits on the chair in front of me, threads the needle and snips the thread off the reel with a dramatic snap of the scissors and a hot look.
“See, I know about sewing.” He picks up my dress and starts to repair the ripped button holes first. His head is bowed and he's concentrating on what he's doing.“
I watch him carefully. He seems unaware of my scrutiny, preoccupied with the rhythmic stabbing of the needle in and out of the fabric of my dress.
I look around the room at his photos, and the movement of my head breaks his concentration.
He looks up, following my gaze.
“You like them?” he asks, casually.
I study the walls of his studio, the mass of photographs of Sean Tyler, in various states of dress and undress. His perfect body is lying, sitting and standing, in a multitude of artistic and very sensual poses. There's no doubt that they're stunning photographs. No one could fail to be impressed by them. I can see his attraction from the professional point of view.
I know he appears to be superficial, and shallow, with image at the forefront of his mind. It's his profession. He's selling his body to the world. He must think about his looks all the time, they're his main asset after all.
But as I switch my attention to the real life, flesh and blood Sean, sitting in front of me, mending my dress, in his blood splattered shirt, I know better. The photos take on so much more meaning for me. I see a lot more in them, than a two dimensional,
“Sorry, but I've gotta do it, those animals might have rabies...” He smiles, trying to make me smile too. But I'm not in the mood for smiling.
“Call Jase back, make something up. What will he think? The both of us gone?”
He stops his dabbing and looks at me.
“Does it matter to you, what he thinks?”
I open my mouth to reply and then shut it again. Sean continues his gentle, stinging, disinfecting of my skin. I don't want to answer his question, because actually, I realize, I don't care, and that makes me sound cold.
“Are you up to talking?” he asks, and his eyes flick up to mine.
“I guess so.”
“I'm hurt you ran away from me.”
“Did I? I can't remember.” Of course I do remember. Everything. But I don't want to. The whole damn party can just evaporate from my memory as far as I'm concerned.
“I'm feeling partly to blame for what happened to you, because I was the one who forced you out there, wasn't I?”
“No, it's not your fault.” My eyes fill at his suggestion of feeling guilt over what happened to me. “It was a random event—just one of those awful things. If anyone was to blame, it was me, for going out the back, instead of the front, and putting myself in a potentially dangerous situation.”
“God...no...look, I'm sorry...forget I said that. I don't want to upset you even more. You've had enough hassle for one night.”
“I'm just so tired.” I hang my head in exhaustion.
“You've every right to be,” he says, as he puffs out a noisy breath.
He dabs me dry with the fluffy towel and carefully smears a little soothing, pleasantly scented cream on my injuries. I'm mesmerized as he wraps the end of my finger, so neatly, with some little bandages.
I look at him in a daze. I really could kiss him, simply for being so goddamn wonderful, for saving me from certain rape and looking after me so well.
“How's your hand?” I ask, looking at the tinge of redness across his knuckles. That punch must have hurt him like hell.
“He flexes his fingers. “A little sore, I guess. It's nothing.”
He clears away the water and towel and then returns to my side.
“Can I take a look at your dress, I can probably fix it.”
“You can fix my dress?” I say in disbelief.
“I'm a real handy guy. You'd be amazed at some of my domestic talents.”
He leaves the room again, and I slip my dress off my bottom half to my feet. I sit there decently covered with my big towel.
He returns with some scissors, and a sewing kit.
He sits on the chair in front of me, threads the needle and snips the thread off the reel with a dramatic snap of the scissors and a hot look.
“See, I know about sewing.” He picks up my dress and starts to repair the ripped button holes first. His head is bowed and he's concentrating on what he's doing.“
I watch him carefully. He seems unaware of my scrutiny, preoccupied with the rhythmic stabbing of the needle in and out of the fabric of my dress.
I look around the room at his photos, and the movement of my head breaks his concentration.
He looks up, following my gaze.
“You like them?” he asks, casually.
I study the walls of his studio, the mass of photographs of Sean Tyler, in various states of dress and undress. His perfect body is lying, sitting and standing, in a multitude of artistic and very sensual poses. There's no doubt that they're stunning photographs. No one could fail to be impressed by them. I can see his attraction from the professional point of view.
I know he appears to be superficial, and shallow, with image at the forefront of his mind. It's his profession. He's selling his body to the world. He must think about his looks all the time, they're his main asset after all.
But as I switch my attention to the real life, flesh and blood Sean, sitting in front of me, mending my dress, in his blood splattered shirt, I know better. The photos take on so much more meaning for me. I see a lot more in them, than a two dimensional,
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