out.
“Yes,
I think so. I don’t like blood.”
“I
can see that. You look like you don’t have any left in your body, you’re so
pale.” Wrapping his arm around my waist, he holds most of my bodyweight as the
lightheadedness worsens. For a moment I take refuge in his heat, leaning into
his chest and imagining for just a second he feels the same magnetic pull I
feel to him. His arm and hand burn at the site where they connect with my body;
it’s as if he wields a concupiscent sword piercing not just my flesh, but my
heart as well. Colin leads me into his spacious office, filled with angular
modern furniture.
“Sit.
Give me a minute to get the emergency kit.” His voice is tense as he guides my
frame onto a surprisingly comfortable couch. I close my eyes and lean my head
back against the cushion, wincing at the slightest movement of my hand against
the towel.
Just
as I relax, a prickling feeling, a flutter of knowledge, prompts me to open my
eyes. When I do, Colin is staring from the doorway, watching me. A silent
moment passes, my gaze held captive by his. I search for something witty to
say, anything to break the tension, but he does it by walking quickly to my
side. Sliding gracefully down to sit next to me, he places the first-aid kit on
the coffee table.
“Give
me your hand,” he says softly.
It’s
better if I don’t watch. There are only two viable outcomes to that visual:
passing out or vomiting. I’m not sure which would be more embarrassing. A
shiver spreads down my spine from the gentle caress of his fingers when he
unwraps the towel, and assesses the wound.
“Charlie,”
his tone forces my eyes to his, “you have a long, deep cut along your palm. You
should go to the hospital for stitches.”
“No,
no hospitals.” For many long ago reasons, the clinical antiseptic halls of a
hospital nauseate me. “Please,” I beg him, “can’t you help me?”
He
sighs as he leans down to look closely at my palm. “I’ll need to clean out the
laceration to ensure it’s free of debris and to stave off infection. It will
hurt.” His tenor gentles as he prepares me for the inevitable pain.
"I
trust you.” His deep blue stare latches onto mine, the electricity strong
between us. “Please.”
Shaking
his head, he silently admonishes my decision while searching for the materials
needed in the first-aid kit. “Close your eyes,” he commands, leaving little
room for argument.
“Yes,
sir,” I tease, adding a mocking salute while leaning back against the couch. He
can be so bossy sometimes . I watch out of my peripheral vision as his head
dips down in front of me, studying the wound and dabbing it with the towel.
Reaching for a small bottle, his shoulder blocks my view.
“Holy
shit,” I hiss, naturally trying to tear away from his grip. He clenches my
wrist, pulling it so I can’t escape as the disinfectant burns and bites into
the gash. I groan as the sting subsides, rolling my head to catch his guarded
gaze.
“I’m
going to do it one more time.” His voice is pinched, as if he’s enduring the
pain with me. Quickly he douses the wound with more torturous liquid and I
mewl, but hold back the real expletive I would like to hurl at him. Squeezing
my eyes shut, I count to ten. I only open them when the heat of his breath
soothes the sting; he’s bent close, blowing tenderly.
“Better?”
he whispers.
“Yes,”
I breathe out, bewildered by his proximity.
Lifting
my head from the back of the couch, he’s closer than I anticipate, our lips a
whisper away. Neither of us moves, his gaze straying to my mouth as our breath
mingles together sweetly. It’s an excruciating invitation to unite yet he
doesn’t move.
His
nearness, and the uncharacteristic desire raging through me for this man is
paralyzing. I want him to kiss me. Badly. My heart thrums so fast it's become a
hummingbird’s wing, the beats indecipherable. His hot breath warms my lips,
heating my body in more ways than one and
“Yes,
I think so. I don’t like blood.”
“I
can see that. You look like you don’t have any left in your body, you’re so
pale.” Wrapping his arm around my waist, he holds most of my bodyweight as the
lightheadedness worsens. For a moment I take refuge in his heat, leaning into
his chest and imagining for just a second he feels the same magnetic pull I
feel to him. His arm and hand burn at the site where they connect with my body;
it’s as if he wields a concupiscent sword piercing not just my flesh, but my
heart as well. Colin leads me into his spacious office, filled with angular
modern furniture.
“Sit.
Give me a minute to get the emergency kit.” His voice is tense as he guides my
frame onto a surprisingly comfortable couch. I close my eyes and lean my head
back against the cushion, wincing at the slightest movement of my hand against
the towel.
Just
as I relax, a prickling feeling, a flutter of knowledge, prompts me to open my
eyes. When I do, Colin is staring from the doorway, watching me. A silent
moment passes, my gaze held captive by his. I search for something witty to
say, anything to break the tension, but he does it by walking quickly to my
side. Sliding gracefully down to sit next to me, he places the first-aid kit on
the coffee table.
“Give
me your hand,” he says softly.
It’s
better if I don’t watch. There are only two viable outcomes to that visual:
passing out or vomiting. I’m not sure which would be more embarrassing. A
shiver spreads down my spine from the gentle caress of his fingers when he
unwraps the towel, and assesses the wound.
“Charlie,”
his tone forces my eyes to his, “you have a long, deep cut along your palm. You
should go to the hospital for stitches.”
“No,
no hospitals.” For many long ago reasons, the clinical antiseptic halls of a
hospital nauseate me. “Please,” I beg him, “can’t you help me?”
He
sighs as he leans down to look closely at my palm. “I’ll need to clean out the
laceration to ensure it’s free of debris and to stave off infection. It will
hurt.” His tenor gentles as he prepares me for the inevitable pain.
"I
trust you.” His deep blue stare latches onto mine, the electricity strong
between us. “Please.”
Shaking
his head, he silently admonishes my decision while searching for the materials
needed in the first-aid kit. “Close your eyes,” he commands, leaving little
room for argument.
“Yes,
sir,” I tease, adding a mocking salute while leaning back against the couch. He
can be so bossy sometimes . I watch out of my peripheral vision as his head
dips down in front of me, studying the wound and dabbing it with the towel.
Reaching for a small bottle, his shoulder blocks my view.
“Holy
shit,” I hiss, naturally trying to tear away from his grip. He clenches my
wrist, pulling it so I can’t escape as the disinfectant burns and bites into
the gash. I groan as the sting subsides, rolling my head to catch his guarded
gaze.
“I’m
going to do it one more time.” His voice is pinched, as if he’s enduring the
pain with me. Quickly he douses the wound with more torturous liquid and I
mewl, but hold back the real expletive I would like to hurl at him. Squeezing
my eyes shut, I count to ten. I only open them when the heat of his breath
soothes the sting; he’s bent close, blowing tenderly.
“Better?”
he whispers.
“Yes,”
I breathe out, bewildered by his proximity.
Lifting
my head from the back of the couch, he’s closer than I anticipate, our lips a
whisper away. Neither of us moves, his gaze straying to my mouth as our breath
mingles together sweetly. It’s an excruciating invitation to unite yet he
doesn’t move.
His
nearness, and the uncharacteristic desire raging through me for this man is
paralyzing. I want him to kiss me. Badly. My heart thrums so fast it's become a
hummingbird’s wing, the beats indecipherable. His hot breath warms my lips,
heating my body in more ways than one and
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