It does sting, but I barely feel it. I'm too focused on her, on the way her fingers feel against my skin, on her breath against my forehead, on the closeness of her and how much I want to reach for her even though it feels like half the blood has left my body and the other half is rapidly descending.
She moves to the knife wound on my side, kneeling in front of me to get a better angle, and I have to close my eyes against the sight of her on her knees between my legs. I’m already dizzy, and it’s not the time or place, but I can feel myself rapidly stiffening, aching to feel her touch me everywhere.
"This needs stitches," she says, her fingers probing the edges of the wound gently.
"I'll heal."
"Sean—"
"I've had worse." I open my eyes and look down at her. Hers are wide with worry, staring at the slash below my ribs. "Just butterfly it closed. It'll be fine."
She looks like she wants to argue, but something in my expression must convince her, because she nods and starts pulling out supplies. Her hands are steady as she cleans the wound, applies the butterfly bandages, covers it with gauze. Shewraps my ribs next, her hands sliding around my torso, and I have to fight to keep my breathing even.
Every touch is torture. Not because it hurts—though it does—but because it feels too good. Too right. She's taking care of me, and no one has done that since my mother died. I've spent twenty-three years since then being self-sufficient, not needing anyone, and now Maeve is on her knees in front of me, tending to my wounds like it's the most natural thing in the world.
She looks up at me, securing the bandage around my ribs. “If you weren’t always pushing me away, Sean, always running from this, you wouldn’t have to come home and be jealous. If you’d make me yours, you wouldn’t feel the way you do.”
If you’d make me yours. Just the thought of that, of what it means, has me hard as hell in an instant, my body throbbing with the need to touch her, have her, even if I died of blood loss trying.
“There’s no annulment after that,” I say flatly. “And you deserve a chance at a real life, Maeve. Not this half-existence where you're married to someone who can't give you what you need."
“You don’t know what I need.” Maeve’s hands rest on my thighs as she looks up at me. “You don’t even know whatyouneed, Sean. So how can you tell me what it is that I should choose?”
"I know what's best?—"
"No, you don't." She shakes her head. “You don’t know how to do this any more than I do. So stop pretending. We’re both lost. Did you ever think that maybe we could find our way out of this together?”
“Every instinct I have says this is wrong. That I'm going to ruin you." My hands drop to her arms, sliding up the bare skin there, wishing she was in my t-shirt again instead of one of hers. “And I’ve spent my life following my instincts.”
Maeve swallows hard. Her gaze shifts over me, over the wounds, over my bare chest, her throat working as her eyes finally meet mine again. And then she pushes forward on her knees, leaning up so close that her breath ghosts across my lips. It would be so easy to close the distance. "I'm stronger than you think."
"I know you are." My thumb traces the curve of her shoulder through the thin cotton. "You're the strongest person I know."
“Then act like it.” Her breath is warm on my mouth, and the last of my control snaps.
I reach down, my hands cupping her face as I bring her mouth up to mine, and she makes a small sound of surprise that quickly turns into a moan. I forget about the pain in my body, the screaming in my arm from the pressure I’m exerting on it right now. All I can think about is how badly I need her, how I can’t stop this from happening any longer. My entire body craves her like air, and every instinct I have is demanding that I make her mine.
She’s kissing me back just as desperately, her mouth moving over mine, still inexpertly but so needy that it doesn’t matter. I never thought I’d get such pleasure from being with a woman who doesn’t know what she’s doing in bed, but everything about Maeve turns me on more than anyone else I’ve ever been with. The thought that it’s only me, that it could only everbeme if I let it, makes me feel as if I’m drowning in lust.
I stand, bringing her with me, and she wraps her legs around my waist instinctively. The motion pulls at my injuries, sends pain shooting through my side and ribs, but I don't care. All I care about is the woman in my arms, the way she tastes, the sounds she's making as I devour her mouth.
I carry her out of the bathroom, past Flynn—who takes one look at us and immediately heads for the door, calling out something about going home—and into the bedroom. I kick thedoor shut behind us and press her against it, my body pinning hers, my mouth moving from her lips to her jaw to her neck.
"Sean," she gasps, her hands fisting in my hair. "Your injuries?—"
"I don't care." I bite down gently on the curve of her neck and shoulder, and she arches against me. "I need to be inside of you. I need?—”
“I want that too,” she gasps, her head turning as she brings my mouth back to hers. “Please, Sean, I’m tired of waiting. I want to find out what it feels like. I want to find out whatyoufeel like.”
That undoes me completely. All I can think is,mine. She's mine, and I'm done fighting it, done pretending I don't want this with every fiber of my being.
I carry her to the bed, laying her down as gently as I can manage, and follow her down. My hands find the hem of her shirt, and this time when I pull it off, I'm not stopping.
I can’t. Not again.
She’s naked under me in a matter of seconds, her clothing tossed aside as I strip her bare, keeping my jeans on just to manage my own lust until I can make sure she’s ready for me. My cock feels as if it’s about to break my zipper, my entire body thrumming with the need to be inside of her, but I’m well aware of how fragile she is, how big I am.
I need her to be ready. Soft and open and aroused, and even then, I’ll have to go slow.
