Ash gave the bandage a sharp tug where it wrapped under Rick’s arm and across his chest, then leaned back. “There,” he said. “All patched up. You’ll live. Unfortunately.”
Rick exhaled, almost a laugh. “Thanks, Nurse Ratched.”
Ash rolled his eyes. “You want a lollipop too?”
Rick’s gaze dropped to his mouth. “Depends where you’re planning to put it.”
The air crackled.
Ash stepped back, setting the scissors on the counter with a clatter. “You know, for someone who got shot less than half an hour ago, you’re still a mouthy bastard.”
“Bullet missed the sarcasm gland,” Rick said, standing, looming.
“You think you’re being funny?”
“You think I’m here for your bedside manner?”
Ash crossed his arms, gazing up at him. “So, whyareyou here?”
Rick’s eyes roamed over him like a gray cloud. “What do you think?”
“Because you’re a stubborn jackass who thinks he can tank a gunshot wound and still swagger around like he’s bulletproof?”
Rick smirked. “Now you’re just mad you didn’t get to play Florence Nightingale.”
Ash’s nostrils flared. “You’re unbelievable.”
Rick stepped in. “And you’re not?”
Now they were inches apart, their chests almost touching. Rick’s breath, warm and uneven, ghosted across Ash’s face.
“You insult my first-aid skills, and now what?” Ash hissed. “You want a goodnight kiss?”
Rick’s mouth twitched. “Wouldn’t say no.”
Ash shoved him in the chest, hard enough to startle. Not enough to move him.
Rick didn’t budge. He laughed.
That was what did it. That sound, low and smug and masculine, vibrating in Ash’s bones. Something snapped.
Ash surged forward, and Rick caught him, rough fists bunching in his shirt as their mouths collided with a force that rattled teeth. It wasn’t a kiss. It was an earthquake. A car crash. A goddamn supernova. Ash moaned into it, half-lost already, lips parting for the brutal crush of Rick’s mouth as their tongues tangled, sloppy and ravenous. His knees nearly gave out from the sheerneedof it.
Rick kissed him back like a man who’d waited too long, a man gone feral from the hunger. Like Ash was the first mouth he’d ever tasted and the last he’d ever need.
They broke apart for air, panting, but only for a breath. Ash leaned back in, lips swollen, eyes glazed. Rick yanked him in again, rumbling deep in his chest, devouring him all over. Their bodies slammed into the kitchen counter with a thud, dishes rattling from the impact, then careened into the wall. Brick chafed behind Ash’s spine as Rick pinned him there, all brute muscle and violent heat, grinding against him with shameless friction. Ash’s head struck the cabinet, and he gasped, a flicker of pain swallowed by the flood of want.
“Fuck,” Ash breathed. “Do that again.”
Rick obeyed with a growl, hitching him higher by the hips, rutting up against him until Ash could feel the thick ridge of his cock pressing through their clothes. Rick’s hands bruised over his jeans, his palms so big they could span both of Ash’s ass cheeks at once, fingers digging into flesh like claws.
Their mouths couldn’t stay apart. Every pause was just a gasp, a word, a groan—then more kissing, deeper, wetter, hotter. Ash’s lips were slick, his chin soaked. Rick bit him, licked him, kissed him again and again like he was starving.
When Rick’s mouth finally broke away to trail along his neck—scraping with stubble, nipping little marks—Ash tipped his head with a low groan, baring his throat without thinking, without caring. His hand slid down to Rick’s fly and tugged.
“Wait.” Rick faltered, panting into his neck. “I—I have to warn you…”
Ash’s hand didn’t stop. “About what?”
