Page 59 of The Devil Wears Orange
Hovering over him, I push up his sleeve, but can’t reach the wound. “Uhm, I think you should remove your shirt,” I say.And your pants, too, if you’re up for some adventure.
His chest is smooth, arms muscular, abs toned, and I’m reminded of the time not so long ago when I pictured him in his underwear. Yes, he can definitely do a Calvin Klein ad with that body or the cover of a romance novel or a cologne ad wearing nothing but the cologne.
“Charlotte.”
“Huh?”
Rashid half-smiles, half-smirks as if to say,I get it, you’re into me.
Oh God, how long have I been staring?“Right. I need to wash my hands.” As I apply the soap, rubbing my hands until it foams, I try not to look at him through the mirror, but my eyes apparently have a mind of their own. And he’s peeking right back at me.
“Ready?” I ask him.
“Yes.”
Gently, I pull at the old tape and dressing until the wound is fully exposed. “Oh God,” I exclaim, taking a step back. “You said it was a little nick.”
“The bullet grazed me. It looks worse than it feels, though the pain medication is wearing off.”
“Do you want to take another pill now before I do something to hurt you?”
Rashid laughs, low and calming. “You won’t hurt me.”
Ah, but I would.At least that’s my plan, anyway. I wish he’d stop staring at me with those pensive eyes and sanguine smile because guilt has me bursting to come clean. I think back to the theft and how he whispered theMistress’love story into my ear, how he stood close to me and caressed my jaw. My heart flutters at the memory of the first time I saw him on stage andhow his presence makes me feel like a schoolgirl in love with the high school quarterback. Teenage me would let Rashid-the-quarterback feel me up during a game of Spin the Bottle. But he’d be part of the cool clique with no time for the dull, smart kids, so in what world would teen me be invited to the same party?
“I wish you had rested instead of running off to your business meeting but I suppose duty called.”
Rashid sighs.
I peer at him. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No, it’s the mention of duty that reminds me how little time I have left.”
“For what?”
“To live my life the way I want. On my thirty-eighth birthday, I am duty-bound to serve my father, prepare to take my proper place and let go of my…passions. It’s the agreement I made with him.”
“So, you’re saying titles and money and private jets aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.”
“It’s a prison I can’t escape from.”
“You said this before, the night we were at the races. There must be something you can do. I’ve seen how easily you wield power.”
“Even with all that power, I really have none. The only time I feel in control is when I–” He stops abruptly.
“When you what?”
He shakes his head. “It’s been difficult standing up to my father, to other family members.”
“What would happen if you walked away? Seriously.”
“It’s not easy for a Crown Prince to abandon his birthright…but, my leaving would see it fall into the hands of my younger brother, and my father has no faith in him. Nor do I. Walking away would leave my people in the wrong hands.”
His palpable sadness hits me. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
I discard the old dressing and wash my hands a second time. I squirt the cleaning solution into the wound and gently rub it from the inside out, fingers wandering further down his bicep, skin like smooth silk over steel muscles. Oh, the sinful things I’d like to do with him right now.
“How does this feel?” I try to adopt the throaty, raw sexuality of a Kathleen Turner femme fatale, but it comes out more like Kermit the Frog.
