Page 55 of Snared Rider

“Okay, well, I’ll wait outside. Give me a shout when you’re done.”

He pulls the curtain back around the cubicle, giving me privacy. Only once the curtain meets the wall do I lift the blankets back.

Swinging my legs out of the bed is more difficult than it should be. When you’re fit and able you never think about how all your muscles work together. When one part of your body is out of action, this becomes apparent. Every movement has me sucking breath through my teeth, my hand clamped over the injured site to lessen the pain. This does nothing and by the time I’m fully upright, I’m breathing hard.

Jesus.

Maybe I should let Logan help me get dressed.

Stubbornness pushes that thought right out of my head and I slowly dig in the carrier bag to see what they’ve brought me to wear. I find a pair of dark blue jogging bottoms that are not mine and a black T-shirt I don’t recognise either. There’s a pair of thick socks and new underwear (I don’t want to think about who bought knickers for me). There’s no bra but the one I put on this morning is in the locker at the side of the bed with the rest of my things, so I can put that back on. I’ll also need to wear my riding boots to go home in, as there are no shoes. Luckily, they were not damaged too much in the crash. Not that they will go with this outfit at all.

I slip into the knickers with a little difficulty, but the bra is a different matter. First, I can’t even reach around to fasten it and second, having the bottom of the cups touch my chest is agony. Therefore, the bra goes back into the bag. I pull on the joggers, which I have to tie securely at the waist to keep them up and then I’m left with the T-shirt. Getting this on is going to be a problem because lifting my arms is next to impossible. It takes some manoeuvring (and probably some ridiculousness) to get it over my head without raising my arms, but I manage. I’m exhausted by the time I’m done and sink gingerly onto the edge of the bed for a breather. I still need to put my shoes and socks on. The thought makes me want to cry.

“Beth?” Logan’s voice sounds from the other side of the curtain.

“Yeah?”

“You decent?”

Since I am dressed, I automatically say, “Yeah.”

I regret this immediately when Logan pops his head around the curtain. I scrabble for the blanket to cover myself, even though I am fully clothed.

“Are you all right in there?”

“Uh, yeah.” I clutch the blanket to my chest, hiding my unsupported breasts from him. This is mortifying. “Do you mind!”

He ignores my protestation, saying, “You were taking a really long time. I just wanted to check you were managing.”

This is really very sweet and coming from anyone else I might have found it so. Coming from Logan, it just pisses me off.

“I’m managing perfectly fine, thank you.”

He lets out a breath that does not conceal just how annoyed he is.

“Just put aside all the anger and all the shit between us for a moment. Do you need help?”

I think about lying, but the thought of bending down to put my socks and shoes on makes me want to cry. I’m already in agony from getting that bloody T-shirt on and my hospital gown off; bending over might push me over the pain threshold.

I grip the edge of the mattress, swallow my pride and what’s left of my dignity, and say, “I need help with my shoes.”

Admitting this is easier than I thought it would be. The world didn’t implode and fire and brimstone is not raining down.

Huh.

Logan looks almost relieved and turns to close the curtain behind him before coming over to the trolley. He glances at me as he reaches for the socks on the bed. I can tell he wants to talk, to say something, but thankfully he doesn’t. Instead, he drops to the balls of his feet in front of me. Everything stops as his calloused hand encircles my ankle. Memories of his touch are made real in this moment, memories I’d held onto for the past decade. Nights we spent together, me in his arms, his finger trailing up and down my back in a slow, sensual rhythm. Memories of his weight on top of me after he emptied inside me. Memories of his fist wrapping around my hair as he pounded in and out of me.

I’m dizzied by the past and I have to grip the mattress harder as he slides the bottom of the jogging bottoms up my leg to reveal my skin beneath. His dark brown eyes raise and my breath stutters in my chest.

Jesus Christ.

How can something as mundane as putting on a pair of socks have my body quivering with need?

I don’t know, but it does. I want him, and I hate that I do.

His fingers ghost over my skin as he releases my ankle to grab one of the socks. Then he slowly slides it over my toes, over the arch of my foot before reaching my ankle.

“Other foot,” he commands, and I lift it to his waiting hand. My pale skin is a stark contrast against his tan. Unlike Dean, his hands are not tattooed, but he is wearing rings on each.

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