Page 47 of Can't Fight It

My phone buzzes, saving me from this ridiculous line of thought, but it only brings up a different kind of frustration.

Dad:Any word on a tournament coming up?

Is that the only thing on his mind? The only thing he can talk to me about?

There’s a knock on my door and I tuck my phone back in my pocket, happy to ignore it. Tessa’s here.

Her eyes are wide as I open the door, her gaze zeroed in on my left brow.

“What happened? Are you okay?”

“What?” What is she talking about?

“You’re bleeding. Right here.” She points at her eyebrow and that’s when I remember Ethan’s lucky shot from earlier. He must have split the skin. I didn’t notice it with how sore everything else is.

“I’m sure it’s fine. It’ll heal on its own.”

“You should at least put some antibacterial ointment on it. Do you need some?” She gestures behind her toward her apartment. “I can get mine.”

“Uh, sure.” If she’s that concerned about it.

She’s back in a minute with a shoebox full of supplies tucked under one arm. “I keep all my medicine stuff in here,” she explains, setting it down on the coffee table. “Sit here.”

She points to the couch and I sit down, amused when she props a pillow behind me as if I’m an invalid.

Rummaging through her box, she finds what she needs and kneels next to me, closer than I expected. Her delicate fingers brush my hair away from my temple and I nearly groan aloud at her touch, not knowing it would affect me like that. That the only thing I want to feel again is the featherlight stroke of those fingers down the side of my face and jaw, down my neck to my chest, heading further south…

I inhale, trying to get my thoughts under control, only to have a tantalizing hint of vanilla hit my nose. Is that what she smells like this close?

This is so much worse than her touching me at the gym. There, we had an audience. I was dazed from being hit.

But here, we’re alone. My mind isn’t addled. All I can focus on is her.

My chest constricts, trying not to breathe in her fragrance. I shut my eyes so I can’t see the way she’s leaning over me, so fucking close to my face. I need to desensitize myself, to ignore how gentle she is as she applies cream to my brow, her breaths soft and sweet.

“Shouldn’t need stitches,” she murmurs, pressing a bandage carefully over the area.

Good. I wasn’t going to get them, anyway.

I reach up, gingerly touching the bandage, and she exclaims again.

“What happened to your knuckles?”

I hold my hand out in front of me, examining it. Yeah, the knuckles are red and cracked, but not especially bad. Between the cold weather and boxing, it’s bound to happen.

“Good thing I brought the whole box,” she says, rummaging through it. She pulls out a jar and holds it up. “This stuff has lanolin in it. It’s great for your skin. I can put some on you.”

I nod, afraid of what I’ll say if I open my mouth.

Please God, touch me. Anything you want to do to me you can.

It’s like her touch flipped a switch within me. Yes, I admit I was attracted to her before, but she’s never willingly got this close in private. Never touched me without reserve. Never gave me a reason to wonder…

“My hands get so dry in the winter,” she comments as she scoops out a dollop of cream and rubs it over my knuckles. “I call it my iguana skin.”

Her touch is light and purposeful, nothing sexual about it, but I still can’t help but imagine how her hands would feel on different parts of my body, rubbing in that same way, with the same level of care and attention…

Shit. I can’t get aroused now. And if she called her own skin rough, what must she think of mine?

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