Page 4 of Arran's Obsession

“You a doctor?” I asked.

Without looking at my face, he curled his lip and gave a short laugh like I’d said something funny. “No. Take a breath. This will sting.”

He tipped the liquid over my graze. Pink water trickled down to my knee, and I winced then tried to angle so it pooled on the road, not the expensive car’s interior. The man didn’t seem to care, instead opening packets of sterile wipes. He linked his gaze to mine for permission, then took hold of my thigh.

My world melted.

His fingertips indenting my skin knocked me off my axis. A rush of good feeling, addictive and sweet, woke an inactive part of my brain. I was hot and sweaty, barely dressed under the leathers, and my body warmed all the more.

What the heck was that?

As if he’d felt it, too, the man paused, his focus still on my thigh. Then he shook his head and scrubbed at the wound.

I yelped, the sting he’d promised delivered.

“It needs cleaning or you’ll get an infection. The streets are fucking grimy,” he muttered.

Giving a sharp nod, I closed my eyes and let him do his thing, concentrating on breathing, and only peeking again when he taped down a white bandage.

“Where else did you hurt yourself?” he asked.

“Nowhere. I’m fine.” I shuffled to the seat’s edge, embarrassment mixing in with the pain, the odd attraction, and every other emotion from the night. I’d delayed here too long and needed to move.

But he caught my wrist.

“Your arm’s dripping blood.”

It was the one I’d slid on, that Riordan’s jacket hadn’t fully protected. Sitting back down, I unzipped the leathers and pulled my arm from the sleeve so it was half off me. An inch-long cut slashed my upper arm, something presumably having pierced the coat.

Maroon ran in a line down to my fingers.

“It’s not that bad,” I mumbled.

But the stranger was staring at me, and consciousness dawned. I was in his car dressed in a skimpy sports bra and shorts. He blocked my way out. All he had to do was push me fully in and I’d be trapped.

Considering how young he was and how expensive his ride, and the fact he did first aid for fun, what kind of man could he be? Oh God.

I was face-on with a gang member.

Breathless, I stared back, my heart rate soaring. I’d lost my ever-loving mind.

He had a hand to his shoulder like he was hurting, too, but his gaze slid over my body and back to my face. Judgement was right there in his eyes. “You a prostitute?”

My jaw dropped.

Of all the things he could’ve said. My temper rose in a rush as fast as the hot attraction had struck.

“Are you kidding? You think I’m a whore working the streets?” I spat out, venom on my tongue.

“It’s just a question.”

“Fuck you for asking. I’m not one of them.”

Sending a silent apology to Cherry in her church steps domain, I leapt from the car, forcing him back a step. I didn’t judge women who worked the streets, even if I found their job distasteful. What right would I have? But my anger didn’t stop.

Headlights flooded us. Another car pulled up, a big silver grille at the front and the outline of two men in the window. My accuser didn’t react to the incomers.

His men, had to be.

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