“I said it’s fine?—”
She grabs the first aid kit from the counter where I left it. Points at the kitchen chair. Commanding without words.
“You know, most women at least buy me dinner before they start ordering me around.” I try for levity. “Though usually they use words.”
Nothing. Not even a smile. Just another point at the chair, more insistent.
“Strong silent type, huh? I’m usually the one who doesn’t talk much.” Still nothing. “Not used to being out-silenced.”
She crosses her arms, waiting. Immovable.
“Fine. But for the record, I don’t usually take orders from women who won’t even tell me their favorite color.”
The tiniest quirk of her lips. Progress.
I sit. “It’s just a graze.”
She gestures at my shirt. Off.
“At least ask nicely,” I mutter.
Her eyebrow raises slightly. She mouths one word: “Please.”
Then crosses her arms again, waiting.
Fine.
I pull the Henley over my head, tossing it aside. The movement pulls at the wound—deeper than I thought. Shrapnel tore a decent gash along my ribs. Blood trails down my side.
Her intake of breath is sharp. She moves immediately, kneeling beside my chair. Her hands are quick, economical as she arranges supplies. Everything in order—antiseptic, gauze, tape, scissors. Each item positioned exactly where she’ll need it. The same way I lay out demolition components. Nothing wasted.
She knows what she’s doing.
Her fingers are gentle but sure as she cleans around the wound. No hesitation. No squeamishness. Just competent care.
But Christ, her hands on my skin.
I haven’t let a woman touch me like this since Syria. Since Amara. The women I meet in bars don’t get to touch—they get my hands, my mouth if they’re lucky, but never this. Never gentle fingers on bare skin, never careful touches meant to heal instead of take.
My body doesn’t understand the difference.
Every brush of her fingers sends signals straight to my cock. She leans closer to see better, her breath warm on my ribs, and I have to grip the edge of the chair to keep still. This is medical care, nothing more, but my body is responding like she’s stroking me with intent.
Three years. Three years since a woman’s hands were on my bare chest in a way that wasn’t transactional. And now this silent woman is unraveling all that control with nothing more than her gentle touch as she treats my wounds.
The silence should be peaceful. Instead, it’s charged with everything I want to do to her. Every nerve ending focused on where her fingers connect with my skin. She shifts again, her breast accidentally brushing my arm, and I have to bite back a groan.
Fuck. I’m about to come undone from basic first aid.
“You’ve done this before.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. I desperately need a distraction.
Her response is a frustrating nod.
“FBI training?”
Another nod.
“You’re good at it.”
