He pulls into a parking bay and I climb out quickly, keen to get him seen to. With what seems to be deliberate moves, he locks the car and a hand comes to the base of my spine while he ushers me into the building. His palm leaves me as we climb the stairs and I miss it. I’m aware of his gaze burning into my back, conscious of each movement I make. The tiny part of me that still craves attention longs for him to be enjoying the sight.
We reach the front door and he stands too close as I put the key in the lock. His body radiates heat and the desire to lean back into the comfort of his chest is overwhelming. How would it feel for his arms to come around me and those lip to touch my neck?
Heavenly. That’s how it would be. If he can incite excitement in me from brushing my arm, I know being with him would be insane—mind-blowing even. What I wouldn’t give to recreate that kiss. I don’t think I’ve ever been kissed so passionately, so possessively. The kisses I got when filming were usually pretty disgusting.
“Uh, Jess?”
I jolt and stare at the key in the lock. “Right, sorry.” I let him in and the glint in his eyes hints at him knowing what distracted me, but how could he possibly know?
My breath sticks in my throat. Was he thinking the same thing?
Shutting the door, I chuck the keys on the kitchen side and motion toward the bedroom. “You’d better lie on the bed. I don’t think I’ll be able to look at… at your”— I wave hand, biting back the various inappropriate ways I want to describe his sexy body— “injury,” I finish lamely.
As if he owns the place, he carefully shrugs off his jacket and flings it on the couch then saunters into the bedroom. I remain stood by the kitchenette but I’ve got a good view of him. My feet are weighted as if gravity has suddenly increased and I can’t move. Hunter lies back on the bed and tucks his hands behind his head—waiting for me.
I shake my head, strip off my jacket and fling it aside then force my leaden legs forward and stop in the doorway to the bedroom. “I’ll just grab some stuff… I mean, bandages and stuff…”
I scurry to the bathroom and tear open the medicine cabinet. It’s not exactly well stocked but I find a gauze pad and an antiseptic wipe I took from the first aid kit at work when I cut my hand slicing lemons for cocktails.
Medical supplies in hand, I hurry back to the bedroom and try to ignore how my stomach flips at the sight of him on the bed. It would be so easy to straddle him and—
“Oh.” I pick up the pad I just dropped and dump it on the bedside table. Hands on my hips, I worry my lip and survey him. It’s no good. “I think you’re going to have to take your top off.”
“You think?” I hear laughter in his voice but his expression twists when he goes to sit and I’m forced to help him up.
My fingers shake as I peel up the grey cotton and pull it over his head, revealing taut skin that makes my mouth water. He slumps and puts his hands back behind his head as if he hasn’t a care in the world, as if need isn’t tearing through him and making his heart pound unnaturally.
I envy him.
Sat next to him on the bed, I recall how he’d done the same not even twenty-four hours ago. The sensation in the pit of my stomach reminds me of my wish I’d been more lucid and able to enjoy how he took care of me. It’s been so long since someone did.
I drop my gaze to his torso. “Oh, it’s only a scratch.” Admittedly, it’s a big scratch—red and angry down his side. I run a finger around the abrasion that is easily larger than my hand. “The car did get you good though.” His muscles contract with my touch. Mesmerizing.
“Told you it wasn’t so bad.”
“Bet it hurts though.” I glance up. “Don’t give me any macho bullshit.”
He chuckles and grimaces. “Just bruised. But I won’t be doing anything particularly active the next day or so.”
The way he says active, his voice low and gruff, conjures up images of the kind of activity that might put a strain on his side. Hunter’s body slick from sweat and straining for release… now there’s a picture I really don’t need. I find myself fanning my face and have to clamp my hand under the other one on my lap.
I grab the wipe and tear it open, casting aside the sachet. He hisses when I press it to the laceration. “Sorry.”
I’m more sorry for letting myself enjoy the sight of him. It’s only going to add to my longing, increase my pain. Hunter can never be mine. No one wants a woman like me, not even Hunter, and I will not put myself through the agony of betrayal and the humiliation or the bullying that comes with it.