Page 6 of At Her Pleasure

She placed a pressure bandage over that part of the cut, reached for his hand and placed it on top of the pad, a nonverbal order to hold it. Her fingers were cold but firm.

A firm touch.

Her brown eyes were worried, and she flattened her hand on top of his to add to the pressure.

“I’ll be fine. No call for help. I do that, I have to report what happened. You go to jail, Mistress.”

Her brows lifted. “What did you call me?”

“Mistress. Of the Hunt. Like Artemis.”

She grimaced. “That damn mural. I’m going to get a spray can of black paint and cover it up.”

“Don’t do that. Was that ToyBoy’s work?”

“No.” He saw her realization that he’d heard her talking to the gravestone, but she moved past that. “He liked doing skateboards, small stuff. The painting was Balloon’s.”

“Balloon?”

“That was his street name. He liked balloons. The 5th Street gang put holes in him the same night they did ToyBoy.”

She gave Mick a critical look. “You’re really built, but the rookies usually are. Older cops get fat.”

“I’m not a rookie. I’ve been on the job five years.”

“Long enough not to have done a dumb move like this,” she observed.

His lips twitched again. “Yeah, I guess.”

She lifted the pad to give the wound another look. “Let me use your phone to call 911. I’ll bail when I hear the sirens. Make up some shit about an attacker who jumped you and I was a bum who made the call and then ghosted.”

“I’ll be fine. Get going.”

The stubborn set of her mouth was far too distracting. “You’re not giving the orders,” she told him. “You’ve been on your ass at least eight seconds. I won.”

He watched with mild alarm as she pulled out a suture kit. “How do you have a paramedic’s bag?”

“I stole it,” she said matter-of-factly. “Same way I keep it stocked. Not my first time needing to patch myself up or someone else, including stitches. I read up, learned how.”

Interpreting his look as a doubt of her abilities, she lifted the hem of her shirt, high enough he saw the frayed elastic band of a black bra. As well as a thin scar that ran from the V-point of her ribs to her hip bone.

“I did a pretty good job, but this was shallow and done with a sharp knife, a clean cut. It’ll eventually fade out.”

“Hopefully in time for bikini season.” His voice was tight as he suppressed the surge of anger on her behalf. He curled his fingers to keep himself from offering a soothing stroke to that harrowingly long line across her flesh.

“Yeah, I’ve been really worried about that.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re not going to be as lucky. I got you pretty deep and it was jagged glass. I’ll stitch you up and douse it good with antiseptic, but if it gets hot or you get feverish, don’t be stupid. Get to an urgent care.”

“Got it.” He knew she was right, but if he could help it, he wasn’t letting this come back on her. The best way to do that was to let her stitch him up. “Appreciate it,” he added courteously. Then chuckled at the absurdity.

She shook her head. “You’re fucked up, man. This is going to hurt. You want one of my beers?”

“I’m on duty, so no.”

“You’re on dinner break.”

“Blowing a breathalyzer still counts if you drink during meal break. They frown on that.”

“I bet that’s not all they frown on.” She rose and moved toward his duty belt and shirt. He tensed as she bent to pick them up. Even though he had the mag for the gun in his trousers, there were extra ones in the belt. Her knife was also there.

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