Page 77 of Grumpy Billionaire Bad Boy

"What are you doing?" I blurt out.

"Uh, taking my pants off so you can cut the other one off."

"Right. Yeah." My chest constricts as London slides her jeans over her ass, revealing a pair of dainty lace panties, similar to the ones I fucked her with and ended up stealing.

"Put your tongue back into your mouth, big boy." London smirks and steps out of her pants completely, leaving her in just her fitted top and panties.

Maybe it's a good thing she didn't go to some random doctor to have this done.

I do my best not to eye her too much and focus on the cast attached to her leg. I'm not always a gentleman, but for her I'll try.

London inches toward the counter, pressing her hands to the sides to lift herself. I get there first, my palms gripping her waist and putting her back up there before she can hurt herself.

"You shouldn't apply pressure to that arm this soon," I tell her like I'm trying to come up with an excuse for why I'm touching her.

"Whatever," she responds and repositions herself.

Kneeling in front of her, I start at her foot, holding her leg steady with one hand and using the other to run the scissors up her cast. The material is easier to cut through than I expect, and it takes no time to make my way to the other side.

"Are you ready?" I ask her once I've cut the length of the cast.

She nods stiffly.

Repeating the same movement as her arm, I pry the sides of the cast open until it pops and reveals her leg.

"Gross," London says immediately. "It's so hairy."

"I think that's normal," I tell her.

"Normal and gross. I'm so ugly now."

My jaw tenses. "Don't say that about yourself."

London rolls her eyes. "Don't be so dramatic, I'm joking." She wiggles her toes and rolls her ankle to get a feel for her newfound freedom.

"Are you in any pain?"

"Not at all."

I hate that I can't tell whether she's lying or not. London could be actively bleeding to death and I'm not sure anyone would notice. She might be annoying as hell at times but she refuses to let on that anything ever bothers her. It's a quality I respect and know all too well.

Rising to my feet, I help guide London off the counter and onto the floor, gently setting her down to get her footing. "You sure you're okay?" I study her so intensely that I accidentally spot a freckle I've never seen on her cheek.

"Stop looking at me like that," she says, her green eyes meeting mine.

"Like what?"

"Like I'm about to fall apart. We've been over this before, Archer."

"How do you want me to look at you?"

I stare into her unwavering gaze and hate the desire that overwhelms me. I shouldn't want her the way I do and yet nothing could compare to how badly I want to grab her face and kiss her. She infuriates me—why can't that be all that it is?

A smirk forms on her face like she can hear my fucking thoughts, making me break eye contact first. I release a breath and busy myself with picking up the discarded pieces of her cast, piling them in my arms and doing what I can to put anything between us.

"We should have a drink," London suggests. "To celebrate."

"Okay," I say while leaving the room so she can put her pants on or do whatever it is she needs to do. But once I'm at the trash can, I find myself unable to throw the casts away. They serve no purpose, they have no use, why can't I just toss them?

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