A serious fucking problem.
I step back, giving her space to sit up.
She sits there for a moment, breathing hard, her breasts rising and falling. I watch their every movement, imagining what it would be like to hold them in my hands.
Stop it, Gregory...
She reaches for her water bottle on the floor and that’s when I see it. A nasty scrape across her palm, already bleeding slightly. Must have happened during the kettlebell work. Why hadn’t I noticed it sooner?
“You’re bleeding,” I comment.
She follows my eyes to the scrape, and shrugs. “It’s nothing.”
“Hold on.” I move to the gym bathroom and grab the first aid kit stocked there. When I return, she’s examining the injury with a small frown.
“Let me see.” I kneel in front of where she’s sitting on the bench, and she extends her hand without argument.
The wound isn’t serious but it needs cleaning.
“This might sting,” I warn before applying the antiseptic.
She doesn’t flinch.
I work carefully, using the antiseptic wipes to clean away the blood. Her hand is small in mine, callused from fieldwork, andI’m struck by how delicate the bones feel despite her obvious strength.
I place a bandage over the injury, securing it gently. When I’m done, I find myself lifting her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles just above the bandage. The gesture is instinctive, protective, and completely inappropriate.
But I don’t fucking care.
“There,” I murmur, looking up at her from my kneeling position.
Her breath catches. I watch her pupils dilate, see the flush creeping up her neck. The electric awareness between us is thick enough to choke on.
Neither of us moves.
I’m kneeling in front of her like some kind of supplicant, and she’s looking down at me with an expression that’s halfway between surprise and something that looks dangerously close to want. Her hand is still cradled in mine.
Her other hand lifts, hesitates, then comes to rest on the muscles of my shoulder.
“Thanks,” she whispers. “For... always taking care of me.”
The touch burns through my t-shirt. I want to cover her hand with mine, want to pull her close, want to find out if her lips taste as good as that coconut shampoo smells.
Instead I stand slowly, stepping back to put distance between us before I do something we’ll both regret.
Or rather, somethingI’llregret.
Because, judging by the way she’s looking at me right now, she might not regret it at all.
Or maybe I’m just misreading her.
She hates my guts, I remind myself.
“You should probably get back upstairs,” I manage, my voice coming out as this unnatural rasp. “Check on the fire... keep it going.”
She nods but doesn’t move immediately. Just sits there on the bench, watching me with those warm brown eyes that see too much.
Finally she stands, grabbing the hoodie she’d discarded earlier and pulling it back on. “Right. Yeah.”
