Page 23 of Knocked-Up Bratva Prisoner

I can’t take my eyes off her, and my cock is pressing hard against my pants.

She swings her legs over the side of the bath and slowly lowers herself in, pulling a face when her sore feet dip into the hot water.

Then she sinks down and closes her eyes, letting out a soft sigh.

I wait a few extra moments before I leave because I want to make sure she isn’t going to try anything, but she looks comfortable.

Hurrying downstairs I find the first aid kit. I carry it up to her room. In the closet, I pull out a pair of pink sweatpants and a pink hoodie. She’ll look cute in those.

I grab two fresh bath towels, leaving one on her bed, taking the other with me when I make my way back to the bathroom.

“Are you ready to get out? I want to have a look at those feet of yours.”

She dips her hair back in the bath to rinse the soap out and then sits up, her arm draped across her chest. She nods. “I’m ready.”

I hold the towel open, staring down at her.

“Close your eyes,” she demands.

I close my eyes, but not all the way. I can still see the blurred and very beautiful outline of her large breasts, her toned stomach, her thick thighs.

She steps out of the bath and into the towel. I open my eyes and wrap it around her.

Then, before she can say anything, I scoop her into my arms and carry her to the bedroom. She lets out a small sound of protest, but nothing more.

Setting her down on the bed, I position her so that her feet are resting on the other fresh towel.

It’s not bleeding anymore, but I can see that it must hurt.

I kneel at the edge of the bed and grab her ankles, pulling her closer to me. She squeals and shifts to pull the towel back over her body.

“Can I get dressed first?”

“No. I won’t be long.”

I’ve tended to a lot of wounds in my life.

Hers are luckily not as bad as they first appeared.

“You won’t need stitches, but they're definitely going to be tender to walk on for a few days.”

She sighs.

“Clara, this might hurt.”

“What might—" I press the gauze soaked in alcohol against her foot and she yelps, startled.

“That wasn’t even half a warning,” she yells at me. “Are you a sadist or something?”

I can’t help the laugh that rumbles from my chest.

“But it’s done now. Isn’t it better to not properly warn you?” I grin.

I wrap one of her feet in a bandage. The other one has such small scratches on it that it isn’t necessary. Then I pull a pair of fluffy white socks over both of her feet.

“You can get dressed now,” I say, standing up and handing her the pink sweatpants.

“Gee, thanks,” she remarks coldly, rolling her eyes in sarcasm. Water is running off her long strawberry blonde hair, down her back and over her shoulder.

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