Page 94 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You
I remember the rule, if you lose control, make yourself fall. I throw my weight sideways, hit hard, and the jolt sears through my leg. My ankle twists, pain flaring bright and immediate.
Ophelia is beside me within seconds, dropping to her knees.
“Arlo… are you hurt? Oh my God, are you all right?”
Her voice cracks, and something in me flinches.
“I’m fine,” I grit out, even as the pain pulses.
“Do you need to call someone?”
“I said I’m fine,” I bite out, harsher than I mean to.
She flinches at my tone, and guilt seeps through the irritation, but I shut it down.
I drag off the skis and push myself upright. My ankle protests, but I manage.
We make our way slowly down the slope. She keeps pace beside me, refusing to leave even when I tell her to.
At the bottom, the attendant helps us unbuckle, and Ophelia spots the swelling before I do.
“Do you have ice?” she asks the man.
He nods and disappears into the small chalet, and we follow after him.
“I said I’m fine,” I say again.
She doesn’t even look at me. “No, you’re not. You’ve probably sprained it. You need ice before it gets worse.”
I sink into the nearest chair and pull off my boot just as the man returns.
She thanks him softly, then kneels in front of me, pressing the cold pack to my ankle.
The sting bites, immediate. I look down at her, at the way her hair falls across her cheek, the focus in her expression, and something inside my chest twists.
“You shouldn’t kneel, Ophelia,” I murmur, reaching out to tuck the loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Not unless I give you a reason to.”
She blinks up at me, startled, a flush rising to her cheeks as she catches my intent.
“But now,” I say quietly, my voice low, “my cock isn’t anywhere near your beautiful mouth. So get up.”
I reach for her, but she loses balance and ends up in my lap, her strawberry scent flooding my senses.
The ice stays pressed to my ankle. Her eyes find mine, and everything else falls away.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, breaking every rule I’ve set for myself around her, and not giving a damn.
She shakes her head. “I didn’t do anything.”
We sit like that until the spell breaks, the attendant’s voice slips through the air, asking if we need more ice.
I wave him off. Ophelia stands, and I follow. The ankle throbs, but it holds.
When we reach the car, she frowns. “You can’t drive like that.
“It’s my left foot,” I reply. “I’ll manage.”
“Still, maybe I should—”
