Page 71 of Devious Madness

“They don’t hurt now,” I hurry to add before he gets himself worked up over nothing.

“I’ll be fine.” He presses his hands into his knees, steadyinghimself.

“Maybe you should take a few shots of something? Vodka? It might help.” I turn to look for something in the kitchen, but he grabs me, yanking me back.

“I’ll be fine. I need to stay sharp.”

“I doubt a shot or two would make you drunk.”

He raises his eyes to mine, his forehead wrinkled in the sexiest way.

“Then how would it dull the pain?”

“All right, fine.” I open the suture kit and inspect the small, curved needle.

Like every other warm-blooded American woman, I’ve seen enough medical dramas to have a general idea of what to do with this thing. But now that I’m looking at it, it looks impossible.

I’m all thumbs pulling it out of the packaging. The curved needle is thin, and I drop it twice before I get a solid grasp on it.

After several deep breaths I bring the suture closer to him. He moves in his seat, putting his knee between my legs so I’m straddling him. It’s a better position, so I don’t argue.

“You sure you don’t want to have something to drink?” I give him another chance.

“Nope. Just do it.”

“Well don’t go whipping out your belt when this hurts,” I mutter, bringing the needle tip to the wound.

He laughs. It’s low and soft, but it’s there.

“I’ll try to contain myself.” He watches as I bring the needle to the wound.

He hisses when I sink the needle in the first time, grabbing my thigh as I pull the stitch through.

As I make the second stitch, I check on him. He’s watching me, his jaw tensed. Pain shines in his gaze, but he’s holding it in.

It’s a horrible job, and it takes me six stitches, but I manage to get the wound closed up. He eyes my work as I finish the last stitch.

“They’re all crooked.” I point out with a frown.

“You did good,” he says sincerely. “You have to tie the end before you cut it.”

Right. I blow out a breath. Thankfully, it’s not too different from ending the stitch on a tear in a seam, and I manage to get the knot close enough to the skin that it shouldn’t open up.

He rolls his shoulder, grimacing only slightly.

“Perfect.”

“Far from it.” I roll my eyes and start to clean up the mess on the table.

But he must not like that, because he grabs the back of my pants and pulls me into his lap.

“Are you going to tell me who shot you?” I question him as he settles me on one knee.

I’m straddling him again, and he’s pushing his leg up so that he’s putting pressure on an already sensitive spot. Just being near him seems to make my body respond, having him so close has only made the effect worse to control.

“Does it matter?”

“Was it my fault?”

---