Page 85 of The Outlaw and the Heir

The walk back was uneventful, with a few people asking after me. It was strange having people concerned about me when I’d spent years with only me to worry about. The ranch was funny. No one outright said the ranch was supposed to be about family, and yet they all acted like it. While it was obvious the Isaiahs werethefamily, no one was left out, and everyone seemed quite happy working there. That was in large part due to how Ambrose handled things, considering his father didn't interact with people much. Still, if I was right about Elizabeth and what she had in mind, she was going to join the ranks of beloved family members as well.

Inside his cabin, I kicked off my boots, marched to the chair near the window, and plopped down. That, of course, resulted in me jarring my back against the chair, sending a hot jolt of pain through me. Thankfully, Ambrose was too busy fighting with his boots to notice. He also pulled his overshirt off and tossed it aside, leaving him in the thin one he wore to soak up any excess sweat.

I got an eye full of his chest pressing against the fabric and watched the way his arm muscles rippled as he gathered the clothes on the floor. It had been over a week since we’d done anything with one another, and while that had been fine the first few days as I adjusted to the pain and gained some strength, now I was well enough to feel the familiar tickle of desire in my gut as I watched him.

Possibly sensing my stare, he turned and frowned. "What?"

"You want to take the rest of your clothes off? They're looking dirty," I said with a smirk.

He looked down at himself in confusion and then rolled his eyes. “Really? You're gonna start that with me now?"

"Hey, don't start pointing fingers. We've been at this long enough for me to know that if you go even a few days without release, you start getting crankier than usual."

"You've beenshot."

"In my back. Not my mouth."

"Sometimes I wonder if maybe that wouldn't have been better."

"Or my ass."

He tried to hide it, but I saw the spark of interest flare in his eyes, which wasn't surprising. I had more experience than him when it came to that sort of thing, so I knew that while it was easy to tamp down desires and urges when there was nothing available other than one's hand. It was a lot harder to restrain your needs when there was someone around. At that point, it was like every trace of self-control disappeared into thin air, and you were left struggling to hold back.

His nostrils flared, and he huffed. “I need to change your bandages."

I groaned, slumping in the chair. "I am allowed zero fun."

"You've been shot."

"As you keep reminding me unnecessarily. And for the record, I think being shot should afford me at least some preferential treatment."

"You're bein' taken care of. That's special treatment."

"No, having your mouth on me and you in me would be special. Changing my bandages is just routine."

"Shirt off."

"Now that's more like it."

"Samuel."

"Ugh."

I let him change my bandage without further fuss because, again, there was no point trying to resist. I really didn't want an infection to be what took me out of this world after all I’d survived up to this point. Admittedly, it was a common way to die. I practically shuddered at the thought, but it would make my wound flare up again.

Despite how careful he was, I still had to fight back a hiss when he peeled the old bandage off and began to clean the wound. I didn't know why it seemed to be a requirement that anything good for you had to be painful. Perhaps if there was a God, I could take it up with him when I finally died, or maybe Saint Peter would know the answer and save me the trip. It wasn't a whole lot better when he applied the new bandage, but it was marginally less painful, at least.

"There," he said, running his hand over the bandage and making sure it was tied firmly. "That should hold."

I shivered under his touch. “Thanks, Doc."

He snorted, and I stiffened when I felt his hand slide over my shoulder and around my neck. The tips of his fingers were rough, but his touch was gentle as they came to rest. It was as if he was sensing my pulse to make sure my heart was still beating. Considering how...worried he’d become lately, that could be the case, or it could just be that he couldn't resist the urge to put his hand on me while I was sitting there and we were alone.

I reached up to lay my hand over his, squeezing it. "You know, I'm not going to keel over."

"That's not what I was doing," he said with a snort, his fingers flexing against my throat.

I chuckled. “Well, if you want to have your hand around my throat, all you had to do was ask. It wouldn't be the first time."

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