Page 39 of Undisputed Player
Focus on the medical aspect. Focus on anything except how beautiful his hands were.
I dipped a clean cloth in the warm water, hyper-aware of how close we were, how his deep blue eyes seemed to stare straight into my soul.
"This might sting," I warned, though given his career, I doubted a little antiseptic would faze him.
"I've had worse." His voice was low, almost intimate in the close confines of our kitchen. "Occupational hazard."
Even his voice was sexy.
I had to concentrate hard on removing every speck of dirt from his scraped palms and not melting into a puddle. His hands remained perfectly still under my ministrations, allowing me to tend to him.
Up close, I could see the intricate engravings on his rings, custom art that probably had something to do with the Easton legacy. I wondered what those hands would feel like touching more than just my fingertips.
My treacherous thoughts made everything worse. My hands shook slightly as I dabbed antiseptic over his scraped knuckles, and I was mortifyingly aware of how my pulse quickened every time our skin made contact. His hands were warm and rough from boxing, masculine in a way that made me too aware of my own femininity.
He caught me staring at the intricate snake tattoos that wound up his wrists around his forearms. "You keep fussing over me like this, Estelle," he murmured, his voice pitched low and intimate, "I might start thinking you care."
That devastating smirk curved his mouth, one I'd seen in magazine spreads and interview clips, was now directed at me. Heat flooded my cheeks like someone had set my face on fire.
"You're lucky I don't charge by the hour," I replied, trying to inject some confidence into my voice to cover the fact that my heart was possibly dying.
He laughed, low and rich, the sound washing over me like warm honey. Then, almost casually, he took his hand back, reached down, and tugged his hoodie off over his head.
Oh. Holy. Fuck.
Time slowed to a crawl as fabric slid over golden skin, revealing a body that belonged only in sculptures. His white tank top clung to a chest that was clearly the result of dedicated hours in the gym, the sleeves straining over strong, sexy, tanned shoulders.
Intricate snake tattoos coiled around his biceps and up his neck like living art, and a few gold chains rested against his throat, highlighting his seemingly hairless sun-kissed skin.
This was not fair. This was not remotely fair.
My mouth went desert-dry as I tried not to stare, tried not to catalog every detail of skin stretched tight over muscle that flexed with each small movement. He looked like every bad decision I ever wanted to make.
Heat spiraled through me, settling low in my belly, dangerous and unwelcome. I knew better than this. I'd built my entire life around knowing better than this.
But Jax "Lion" Easton, in all his arrogant, old-money glory, was sitting in my kitchen looking like he'd just stepped off a photoshoot and into my most elaborate fantasies.
My heart stuttered, my breathing became shallow, and suddenly I understood exactly why every woman in the world fell to their knees for this man.
He wasn't even human. He was carved from dreams and destructive desires.
He caught me staring, again, and this time his smirk was evil. "Like what you see?"
The question was pitched low, meant for my ears alone, and it sent shocks down my spine. The confidence in his voice suggested he already knew the answer, that he was used to having this effect on women, that I was just another admirer in a long line of conquests.
The thought was both humbling and irritating, snapping me back to reality with uncomfortable force.
"You're not my type," I lied, forcing myself to look away even though the image of him, broad shoulders, perfect jaw, those cocky blue eyes, was now permanently burned behind my eyelids. "Too pretty."
His grin widened, and he leaned back in the chair like he owned the place, like he owned the entire building, like he owned me.
"That's a first. Usually, pretty is a good thing."
Usually.
Because, of course, women fell at his feet. They melted intopuddles of hormones and poor decision-making the moment he looked at them with those sapphire eyes.
I snorted, trying to inject disdain into the sound, but the tension between us was electric and dangerous, humming under my skin and making it hard to think straight.
