I shake my head at the madness, and then I realize. All I did last night was make her moan, and this… this is payback.
As I stitch, weave, and cut, and stitch, weave, and cut, her butt tightens up inches from my face.
I also hear her pant, and she breathes deeply. It’s disturbing, and hot.
Finally, I finish, and the six stitches look clean. I wind a bandage around the stitches, securing it like I’ve been trained.
She still likely needs a good licking, but I work hard to remove that visual. I flick the surgical gloves into the rubbish, like in anygood medical show. I next prepare my ‘I’m God, aka a doctor, and this is how your life will be’ speech.
I help her over, cross my arms over my bare chest, and look down.
We share a look, and she looks up, panting.
“Now, patient, keep it dry, redress it daily; in five days, have some grumpy arsehole or some boring wimp of a beta remove the stitches.”
She nods in pain and goes to sit up. As I help her, I remember the rest of the carnage.
That her car is almost in the river, her things are in it, she is staying on my property, and unless I like lawsuits and other legal distractions, I have to do this. The right thing.
As she sits there, all broken and down, I try not to think of a reason. A reason she needs to remove her panties.
I move on and put the old-fashioned kettle on to make tea.
“Look,” I say, hands on my hips. “Unless I have it wrong, you’re going to have to stay here. I have a few rooms you can use.”
“What, no barn?”
“The barn is full, try to keep up. Now, do you want to be carried upstairs to my bed?” We share a look, and I shake my head.
“My old bed.”
She is in pain, and she looks broken. She is far from the perfect, bouncy, hot, free woman I’d first met. Strong, full of life and with a spark.
Finally, she nods.
I wrap the blanket around her and lift her near-naked body into my arms. I carry her upstairs, towards my bedroom, and then down the long hall.
We reach my old bedroom on the first floor, and we walk inside. The room has a great view of the lake, and I do not want her near me on the top floor.
“Nice room,” she says as I lay her on the small, old-fashioned four-poster bed.
“It was my childhood bedroom,” I say.
“Lucky for some.”
“Not at all,” I reply before walking away. “Every one of my family is dead.”
“Oh. I’m… I’m sorry…”
I am already looking out of the window to the lake. I knew her eyes would be on me by now, which is why I timed my explanation. To the second.
I don’t need sympathy.Ever.
“Harry, my name is Harrison,” I say, turning and trying to move away from the pain and to start afresh.
“I’m Sam!”
“Not completely accurate,” I say, crossing my arms over my eight-pack and walking to her.
