Page 9 of Scary In Love
It takes great effort to pull my eyes away, but I scan the room for signs of blood, or hazards that could injure someone else. She’s clearly breathing, and nobody is on fire, thank fuck.
“It’s her knee, boss,” Matteus says, stepping aside to let me crouch in front of her. My hands reach into the kitbag for an instant icepack while I attempt to check her over.
It’s a top-to-bottom process, starting with scanning for a head injury, but my thoughts get lost in the long dark waves spilling over her shoulders, and the bleached blonde streaks that frame her face.
Just like before, my instinct is to curl them around my fingers and pull her close, but I focus on squeezing the pack, shaking it to activate the cold while I keep going.
My gaze travels from her dark brown eyes to full, pouty lips, then down to where the buttons on her cardigan strain against her cleavage. It’s cropped, revealing a band of bare skin above the pink skirt she’s paired with black ankle boots, and those fishnet tights.
I’m fucked.
Fishnets are my weakness.
Not only do they look incredible stretched over her gorgeous thighs, but they’re the super sexy kind with big, wide gaps. The perfect size for me to hook my fingers into and rip apart.
Always wanted to. Never had the chance.
The tights caught my eye when she first walked in. Instead of hiding her body, they beg me to look, and the rest of her is just as stunning. Motioning for her to spin around for me wasn’t strictly part of my act. I did it without thinking and hadn’t expected her to actually do it.
“You…” she whispers.
“Yeah. Me.”
Women have been the last thing on my mind while I’ve been preparing for tonight, but this one has my full attention.
I can’t look away, and she’s looking back, her eyes bouncing around my face as she checks out my makeup. The bruised eye, busted nose, and bleeding cheek, all fake of course, but convincing enough thanks to lessons from the specialist make-up artist I hired to train the cast.
“Can I?” I ask, holding the icepack closer to her knee. She nods and pulls her hand away. Her skin looks red and tender.
I cup the back of her calf to hold her steady, and press it gently against her. She hisses at the contact, then throws her head back with a breathy moan that’s probably pained but definitely sounds like pleasure.
Still on one knee, I watch as her lower lip disappears behind her teeth, and she moans again. I press harder. Goosebumps prickle up her thigh, and the tip of one of my fingers slips beneath a strand of her fishnets.
She squeezes her eyes shut. Her legs part ever so slightly. I stroke the soft skin at the back of her knee. She shudders, and time stands still, until Clarissa coughs behind me, snapping out of whatever the fuck I’m doing here.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell our guest before reluctantly dragging my gaze away from her to talk to the crew. “What happened here?”
“It wasn’t me.”
A balaclava-clad face appears beside my thigh, and Mikey rolls himself out from underneath the sofa. It was his idea to use a car creeper, a board on wheels that helps him slide in and out, and it was a damn good one.
“Really, it wasn’t their fault,” she winces, her lips pinched together as she breathes through the pain. “Your cast are excellent. It was my date. He freaked out and kicked me.”
I look around the room for the dickhead who did this to her.
“Then crawled out of here on his hands and knees looking like he was about to piss himself,” Matteus says.
The woman laughs, a beautiful sound, then winces as she tries to sit upright.
“Well, in that case, job well done, team. I’ll take it from here.”
They hurry to reset the room, ready for the next group.
“I’d really love to check you out a bit more.”
She smiles at the unintended innuendo, and my brain short-circuits for a second, picturing her lying back, skirt hiked up, with me on my knees for other reasons. I squeeze her calf one more time, reluctant to let go.
“Your knee, I mean. Check it out in our first aid room? It’s not far. Do you think you can walk?”
