This is just wound care. Clinical. Simple.
“Ready?” I asked.
She nodded, and I saw the way her breath quickened slightly. Anticipation or nervousness, I couldn’t tell.
I angled the bottle and sprayed her right nipple first, the mist settling on inflamed skin. She drew in a sharp breath, her body tensing, but she didn’t pull away. I watched the solution bead on her skin, watched it run down the curve of her breast in tiny rivulets that caught the light. I willed my cock to not respond.
“Does it hurt?” I asked, my voice rough.
“Stings a little. But it’s helping, I think.” She glanced down at herself, then back up at me. “You can do the other one.”
I repeated the process on her left nipple, hyper-aware of my hands' proximity to her skin, of the way her chest rose and fell with each breath. Her breasts were fucking perfect—I could admit that even as I tried to maintain a clinical detachment. Full and round, sitting high despite their size, the kind of curves that artists spent lifetimes trying to capture. Her skin was soft, supple, warm beneath my careful touch when I steadied her with one hand while spraying with the other.
But I compartmentalized those observations, shoved them into a box labelednot now. She was in pain. Pain I’d caused. That was what mattered.
“Let it sit for a minute,” she instructed, her voice steadier now.
I waited, counting seconds in my head, watching the saline work. After sixty seconds, I picked up one of the clean washcloths—soft white cotton that smelled of lavender—and gently patted her right nipple dry. The touch was feather-light, barely there, but she still drew in a quick breath.
“I am sorry.”
“You’re fine.” She watched me with an expression I couldn’t read. “I told you I can do it myself.”
“Nyet,” I repeated. “I am the one who hurt you.”
“So dutiful,” she said, a smile playing at her lips. “Anyone ever tell you that you take responsibility way too seriously?”
“Frequently.” I moved to her left nipple, repeating the gentle patting motion. “I ignore them.”
She snorted, then winced at the movement. “Of course you do. God forbid Rowan ever half-ass anything.”
“There is no point in doing something if you are not going to do it properly.” I set aside the damp cloth and reached for the ice packs.
“Is that your life motto? Because it explains so much about you.” Her tone was teasing now, the pain clearly easing enough for her smart-ass mouth to return.
“It has served me well thus far.” I unwrapped the first ice pack from its protective towel and held it up. “This will be cold.”
“Yeah, that’s generally how ice works.” But there was affection beneath the sarcasm, warmth that tightened my chest.
I pressed the ice pack gently against her right breast, careful to center it over the inflamed piercing. She sucked in a breath, her body tensing, then slowly relaxing as the cold did its work.
“Is that better?” I asked.
“Yeah. Much.” She looked down at my hand holding the compress, then back up at my face. “You know you don’t have to keep apologizing, right? I’m not mad at you.”
“You should be.” I applied the second ice pack to her left breast, mirroring the placement. “I should have asked about your piercings. Should have been more careful.”
“Rowan.” She reached up and caught my chin, forcing me to meet her eyes. “I asked you to touch me.Beggedyou, actually.”
“That is not the point—"
“That’s exactly the point.” She released my chin but held my gaze. “You helped me. You could’ve fucked me. God knows I would’ve let you. . . but you didn’t. You kept boundaries and respected my body—myconsentwhen most people wouldn’t have. So stop beating yourself up over my sore nipples.”
The casual way she said it—you could’ve fucked me—sent heat rushing through my body despite my best efforts at control. My cock, which had finally started to soften during the clinical piercing care, immediately responded.
Treacherous bastard.
“How are you feeling otherwise?” I asked, desperate to change the subject before she noticed my body’s reaction. “The effects of the drug, I mean. Do you feel any lingering symptoms?”
