Oh hell. That fucking look gets me every time. I can't stop myself. I tip her chin up and press my mouth to hers. The kiss is tender, full of longing and all the things we haven't said to each other.
"Take of your shirt and lay back," I instruct more gently.
This time she doesn't argue with me. She strips the overlarge sweater over her head and falls back onto the rumpled pile of sheets looking like a goddamn angel as she does it. It would be so easy to pop the button of her jeans, drag them down her pale, shapely legs, and get a taste of her. The pulse pounds in my ears and for a few seconds it's all I can think about. I kiss her again, climbing onto the bed, knees braced on either side of her waist. This time the kiss is deeper and the warm slide of her tongue tastes like candy.
A small whimper pulls me back to reality. I'm pressed hard against her, chest-to chest at this point. Shit. I'm probably crushing her, making her injuries worse. I wrench myself away with a curse. I'm a bastard. And just like the last time we were together, I'm plunging dick first into trouble with no thought for the consequences.
"Sorry."
"Fucking bruises," she mutters. "They ruin everything."
I don't respond, afraid that if I examine the meaning behind her words, I'll get ideas. I shouldn't be touching her at all. Instead, I reach over and flick the bedside light on. A dim orange glow lights the space. When I approach her again, I keep the concern at the forefront of my mind. Her safety is paramount. The throbbing ache of want in my balls is a secondary concern.
The skin of her stomach is taut, honed into a flat line by either diet or exercise. She'd been softer when we were teenagers, the last little vestiges of baby fat clinging to her cheeks, arms, and even to her slender waist. I try not to focus on just how good she feels beneath my fingers when I skim my hands over the injuries. She stiffens a fraction but doesn't cry out again. There doesn't appear to be blood pooling under her skin. The bruises are frequent, but not large.
"And dizziness?" I check.
"What?"
"The friend I called told me the signs to look for. I want to make sure you're not trying to die on me, okay?"
She shakes her head. "No dizziness."
"Nausea?"
"No."
"Chest pains or shortness of breath?"
"Well, I think that's more from the kiss than anything else," she teases. She rolls her eyes when I don't laugh. "Kase, I'm fine. There's nothing to worry about."
"You’renotfine, Brooklyn. If you had things under control, you wouldn't have come to me. Now answer my damn questions. Any pain in your abdomen?"
"No more than usual. I'm not dying, Kase." She pulls her sweater on and I’m sad to see the expanse of pale flesh disappear beneath it.
The knot of fear in my chest doesn't ease. I'm regretting the choice to not take her to the hospital. If she dies on my watch, I'll never forgive myself.
Brooklyn clambers off the bed and stands. She has to push up on her tiptoes to look me right in the eyes. Her soft little hands brace the sides of my face and she slides her lips over mine in a not-quite kiss.
"Thank you for all of this, Kase," she whispers.
Her breath is sweet against my lips. I want to drag her closer, erase the space between us, taste every part of her. I've been starving for this kind of contact for close to a decade, but it's not until relief is close at hand that I realize how much I wanted this.
"Brooklyn..."
But whatever I'm about to say dies on my lips when the door rattles on its frame. I reach for a gun that isn't there. I hadn't thought to bring one to my meeting with Brooklyn and now I'm at a disadvantage.
"Fuck."
What do I do? The lamp is bolted down. I'm sure whoever is knocking down the door doesn't want to talk. There's only one way out that I can see. I heft the armchair in the corner up. It's heavier than I'm expecting and it takes me a few steps to get it steady on my shoulder. Then I heave with all my might, sending it crashing through the window and onto the strip of grass just outside. The glass rains down into the room, leaving jagged edges around the corners.
I shrug off my jacket and wrap it around one hand, sweeping away the last of the shards as the door rattles in its frame again. There's the distinctive sound of a gun cocking and then a hole about the size of a silver dollar shatters the wooden door. Brooklyn jumps back with a shriek as the bullet impacts the wall not far from her face.
I hurl my jacket at her. No time to find wherever she tossed the sweater.
"Get out of here!" I shout.
"Kase-" She looks ready to argue with me.
