My heart raced from his touch. I bit at my bottom lip as his fingers lay close to the edge of my panties, the light pressure of his fingertips into my skin, the gentle way he cleaned out my cuts and, “Ouch, that freaking hurts.”
“Sorry,” he whispered, ripping open a few Band-Aids. My legs were barely scratched up, just a bunch of superficial scrapes. There was one deep gash high on my thigh, but it wouldn’t even need stitches. Most of the blood on my pants was from my mother.
“You going into work or coming home?” I asked, watching the heaviness in his eyes.
“Going to a funeral,” he said, voice thick. He smoothed the last bandage over my skin and stepped back, tossing the rest of the gauze into his bag.
“Oh, God. I’m sorry. What…who?”
He shrugged and looked down at his watch. “Damn it,” he mumbled under his breath. “I’m going to be late.”
Okay then leave.
Jerk.
Gorgeous. Sexy. Jerk I’ve had a crush on since I could remember.
No stay.
Stay and touch me some more.
No, he should leave.
God, why was he not even looking at me?
My knees knocked together, and goose bumps traveled up my bare legs. I squeezed my thighs together, like some sort of a desperate wonton woman.Him?He packed up his first aid bag and ignored me. I swallowed back all the stupid words I was dying to say. I needed to clean and get to the hospital. Then go home. I needed to go home and not throw myself at someone who obviously didn’t care about a half naked woman who stood right in front of him.
He waved as he walked to the door, but didn’t bother looking back at me. “If I don’t see you around, I hope your mom’s okay. And make sure you say, ‘Hi,’ to Brooke.”
That was that.
Of all the teenage, high school fantasies I’d ever had about Dean Fury, the reality of finally taking my pants off in front of him totally sucked.
