Page 19 of The Wrong Husband
She switches off the flashlight and places it aside.
Then moves her finger in front of my eyes. I follow the direction.
"No concussion.” Movements brisk, she touches the skin next to the dried blood on my forehead. My muscles jump. Sensations zip up my spine. It takes everything in me not to groan. I curl my fingers into fists, press my feet into the floor, and will my body to relax. Impossible, when every tendon in my body seems to have turned to steel. And the muscle between my legs to granite.
She presses down on the skin, and pain shudders out from the point of contact. Still, I make no sound. She frowns, presses around a little more. "Does it hurt?"
Yes.
I shake my head. I’m not lying; I can bear it.
She shoots me a disbelieving look from under her eyelashes. Then presses down harder. This time, I hiss out a breath.
"So, itdoeshurt?"
"Just do what you need to," I say through gritted teeth. Sweat beads on my brow. Sheishurting me. Just not where she imagines.
I’ve ached for her touch, but nothing prepared me for this.
My blood turns into lava, and my pulse rate kicks up. I want to divest her of those scrubs that do nothing to disguise the lush curves of her body and throw her down on the examination table, before I cover her body with mine.
But I don’t do that. Obviously. I hope none of my thoughts show on my face. But she must hear something in my words because her movements speed up. Some more digging in with her fingers, which sends little points of pain racing under my skin, and she nods.
"No ribs broken; only bruised. So, you won’t need an X-ray. You do need stitches for this, too, however."
Then she reaches over to grab the antiseptic spray from the small rolling table positioned beside us. The curve of her waistbrushes my thigh, and I’m so turned on, I could come from the contact.Damn.
Then I’m gasping for air—this time, for real—as she sprays antiseptic on my wound.
I manage not to cry out. Which means, hopefully, I don’t dispel the projection of my macho persona and impermeability to pain;only so I can impress her.
She straightens. "Close your eyes."
I don’t let anyone order me around. But in this examination room, she’s the expert. And apparently, her no-nonsense doctor’s voice is a huge turn on, as evidenced by my hardening groin. I do as she says. She sprays the antiseptic on the cut over my eyebrow. Then on the one on my lower lip. The resulting burn is barely a twinge.
Eyes still closed, I hear her walk around to one of the shelves. When she asks me to lay down, I oblige, hoping the part of me that wants to stand at attention is impeded by my jeans.Down, boy.
Her footsteps approach. I feel the warmth of her body as she bends over to inject an anesthetic to numb the space around the cut on my eyebrow. Her scent intensifies, exacerbating the lust dancing through my veins. After weeks of watching her from afar, I’m close enough to touch her.
My fingers tingle, but I manage to keep my hands to myself. I open my eyes and see my fill of her. She must sense my gaze, for her cheeks redden. But her fingers don’t stop moving. She finishes stitching my forehead, then turns toward the gash in my side.
When she touches the abraded skin around the wound with the cotton pad, I can’t stop the groan which boils up.
“Sorry,” she murmurs without looking up. Goosebumps pepper her skin. Interesting. And reassuring to know she feelsthis connection between us, too. That even though her touch is professional, the impact on her is far from it.
I sense her breathing roughen. Then she gets a hold of herself and begins to clean the wound. She follows the same protocol, numbing the space before she stitches it up.
I reach out and pocket the flashlight.
All too soon, she’s done. Snipping off the thread, she steps back.
"Keep the stitches dry. They should start dissolving within ten days. You’ll probably have a scar, though." She pulls off her disposable gloves and drops them in the bin. "It’s only going to add to your good looks, I’m sure."
"You think I’m good-looking?" I swing my legs over the side and sit up.
She stiffens. Then, rubbing antiseptic onto her hands, turns to me. "You know you are."
"It means a lot to me to know that you think so, too."
