Page 11 of Bred By the Barge

Her shoes mash against my outer thigh, and I know I need to address her waterlogged lower half, but the mere thought of seeing her curves undoes my attempt to calm the need roaring through me. I pull her closer, drop my chin to the top of her head, and fill my lungs with her pheromones. The sour note of incompleteness and the roughness of her bandaged hands on my stomach help center me.

I close my eyes and relish every sensation. Her slight weight on my lap. The warmth of her breath on my chest. Her soft skin against mine.

As the minutes tick by, her breathing slows to the steady rhythm of deep sleep. I wait until the blood seeping from her shoulder drips off my forearm and lands on my thigh before interrupting her nap.

She doesn’t respond when I shift her head into the crook of my arm. I sigh and brush her hair back from her face before pressing the jar to her lips. When the liquid runs down her chin, I growl, set the drink down, and catch the juice on my finger. She scrunches her brow when I dip my fingertip into her mouth. I push between her teeth and stroke her tongue.

She jolts awake and stares up at me with wide eyes. I purr and sink a little deeper before reluctantly removing my finger from her mouth.

She stiffens further as awareness seeps in through her confusion.

I offer her juice. She sips without balking, but her furtive glances between my face and our surroundings show her apprehension.

When I push a kelp chip into her mouth, she goes still.

“Eat,” I demand.

“What is it?” she asks with the chip on her tongue.

“Food.”

When she doesn’t move, I pop one into my mouth and chew and swallow. After studying my face for a moment, she follows my lead.

I open several other containers and offer her each new item, one at a time. Pinched between my fingers, I ferry morsel after morsel into her mouth, until she no longer avoids my touch. When she moans in delight at an unfamiliar taste, I give her more.

My heart aches. I long to feed her from my hand like this for the rest of our lives.

She blushes as I deepen my purr.

The splotch of blood on my thigh grows.

I harden my expression and grab the bottle of liquor from the first aid kit. She stiffens. I press the rim to her lips.

“Just a few swallows,” I assure her.

She lifts a bandaged hand to push the bottle and turns her head away. I growl and tighten my arm around her.

“Your shoulder needs stitches. Take a few sips.”

“I don’t want any,” she says.

I place the bottle on the floor and frame her face with both hands. She stares up at me with startled eyes.

“I’ve seen you in enough pain, tiny treasure. Don’t make me watch you suffer for no reason. Have a few swallows to dull your senses.”

She blinks. Blinks again. Inhales. Exhales.

“Okay,” she whispers.

I rumble my relief and settle her back into my arms before guiding the bottle to her lips. She grimaces but drinks until I pull the alcohol away. I wait until she finishes coughing from the burn before insisting she drink more. Her cheeks flush and the worst of the tension drains from her shoulders.

She squeaks as I flip her onto her stomach and drape her over my lap. Her breasts pillow against my thigh, tempting the beast within me, but I pin her lower back down and study her shoulder.

I resist the urge to take a swig out of the bottle and use it to sanitize my hands instead before pulling what I need from the first aid kit.

“Be still, Pearl. I’ll finish as fast as I can,” I promise.

She tucks her face against my leg and wraps her arms around her midsection, which pulls her shoulder into a better position. Her bandaged hands inch around her sides. I trail my fingers down her spine before grabbing the detachable showerhead above my shoulder. She turns her head and watches as I lean to the side, turn on the water, and test the temperature on my inner forearm. When I deem it acceptable, I move the hose to my other hand and pin her lower back down.

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