Page 57 of Eight Years Gone

He’d done that. He’d made her sad, yet she still wanted to help him. “You’re making this into a bigger deal than it is.”

“It’ll only take a second.”

He steamed out another breath as he moved to stand in front of her. “It’s hardly bleeding anymore.”

“That’s good.” She dampened a cotton ball with the peroxide, then nudged him closer to the sink. “But that doesn’t mean your cut can’t get infected. That shelf is dirty.”

He leaned his butt against the countertop, holding out his arm to her. “Let’s get this over with.”

Stepping closer, she slid the cotton over his newly opened cut, blowing as she blotted.

Frowning, he hissed out a breath with the hellfire burn of her gentle movements. “Shit, that hurts.”

“I bet. I’m sorry.” She kept a firm hold of him, blotting again, blowing some more. “I’m almost done.”

He pulled away, blowing on the cut himself. “That’s clean enough.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated as she grabbed a washcloth, wiping up the dried blood from his elbow to his tricep before she peeled the larger bandage from the packaging.

He held out his arm to her again.

She carefully secured the Band-Aid in place, her brow furrowing in the irresistible way it did whenever she concentrated as she traced the adhesive edges with her finger. “It looks like you’re all set.”

He inspected her work instead of focusing on how good she smelled or how great it felt to have her hands on him again. “Thanks.”

She gently eased his sleeve back down. “Blood stains on a white T-shirt. I think it’s safe to say that’s ruined.”

He nodded. “I’ll throw it away when I get home.”

She swallowed, nodding this time, holding his gaze.

It would have been so damn easy to sit there and drown in those big blue eyes—to selfishly waste more of her time just to spend a few more minutes in her presence. But his selfishness had already hurt her enough. “I should head out.”

“Okay.” But as she said so, she stopped him from standing with her hand on his arm.

He recognized desire—her wanting. “Grace—”

“Just wait,” she murmured as she stepped closer, bringing her fingers up to trace along the short scruff of his beard.

Christ, she was killing him. He struggled not to moan as he grabbed hold of her wrist, stopping her movements. “What are you doing?”

Her breathing came faster as she shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Clearing his throat—clearing away the gruffness and strain he heard seconds ago—he gripped her tighter. “I want you, but not like this—not when you’re vulnerable.”

“We’re both vulnerable.”

He nodded, acknowledging his weakness. “I don’t want you regretting this.”

“I won’t.”

He shook his head this time. “I can’t stand the idea of you resenting me in the morning.”

“I don’t resent you, Jagger. I’ve tried, but I can’t seem to get there.”

“Grace—”

“I want to feel,” she said, stepping closer yet—until they breathed each other’s breath. “I’m so sick of thinking. I’m so sick of reliving the past. You’re right here.”

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