Page 29 of Conner's Luna

"Hey, babe, how do you tell the difference between a geneticist and a fan of BDSM?"

"BDSM? Like Christian Grey?" she murmurs.

"Yeah," I rasp out as my wolf starts to claw at my consciousness.

"You ask them what the opposite of 'dominant' is," she sniffles.

"You stole my joke,” I tell her weakly.

"Stick to your math."

I speed away from campus. I'll call Uncle Mattie. He's only a couple of hours away, completing his residency. In the meantime, I'll get her some ice and painkillers and take my own meds. Fuck.

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Bailey

Dislocations hurt something awful. This is why I don't play contact sports. Alright, I'm not coordinated or remotely interested in sports, but who's asking? Of course, if I had played sports growing up then maybe I would have already encountered this issue with my bone disorder. It's the only logical explanation. A male human grip is around 100 pounds, but I'll give Conner 125 based on his size and athleticism. The human body can withstand up to 400 psi, so if I consider that Conner's hand was exerting pressure on my shoulder that's about... oh... about another 25 inches square because he has such big hands, then my shoulder should have been able to withstand that amount of force. Unless there was some sort of torque.

Conner and I are curled up together on the couch with a huge blanket tossed over us. Conner barely seemed to hang on as he drove like a speed demon. He grabbed an ice pack from the fridge, wrapped it tightly around my shoulder with an ace bandage, made me jam some painkillers down my throat, and tucked me into the huge, fluffy couch without speaking a word. Then he wrapped us up like a overstuffed taco and seemingly fell asleep.

I lift his hand up and compare the size with my own. I'll have to increase my estimate of square inches. From the tip of his middle finger to the edge of his palm I would guess he's about 8 inches.

Conner nuzzles my hair and whispers sleepily, "sorry, Bails."

"How large do you think your hand is? It seems abnormally large, now that I'm measuring. Eight inches? Longer?"

"Much longer," he replies instantly.

"Liar," a new male voice chimes in cheerfully.

I go beetroot red. "I didn't mean-" I start to sputter, but I completely lose my train of thought when I spot the new man. It's not one of Conner's friends. At least, not one that I've met before.

He's stunningly beautiful. His face is almost feminine, but it isn't off-putting, with caramel-colored eyes and topped in thick, wavy blond hair. I gape at him for a moment, then open my big mouth and insert foot, "your face has perfect symmetry!"

He blushes. "Thank you," he says shyly. "Umm, I'm Mattie, Conner's uncle."

I smile. He's only about a decade older than Conner, if that. Conner has a sexy uncle. I feel a hard pinch and meet the green eyes of a grump as Conner carefully unwraps us and sits us up.

"What?" I ask Conner in a hiss.

"He's married. To a thug. A real scary motherfu-" he cuts himself short.

I wrinkle my nose at Conner. "I'm admiring a work of art, Conner. It's not my fault that your uncle belongs in a museum next to the other beautiful things."

Conner scowls, but his eyes are twinkling. "He has a twin sister, too."

I gasp, "is she symmetrical, too?"

"Am I symmetrical?" Conner shoots back.

I pretend to study him, a frown on my face. "Nope."

Conner's uncle Mattie starts to laugh. "Alright, enough! I'm here to check on you, Bailey. You dislocated your shoulder?"

"You're a doctor?" I ask him. "He gets better and better. What do you do?" I ask Conner seriously.

"I'm a statistician," he replies blandly.

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