“Darius, I need to get back to work.”
“Sit.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sit down.” His eyes flash gold again. “On the table. Now.”
“I don’t take orders from—”
His hands fly to my waist, and before I can process what’s happening, he lifts me and sets me on the edge of the conference table.
My thighs part automatically as he steps between them, and heat floods through me at the contact. The scent of him intoxicates me like a drug. No cigarettes.Just him.
“Stay.” His voice drops to that alpha command tone that makes my spine straighten automatically.
Then, he’s gone.
I sit there, torn between anger and arousal and…something else I don’t understand. My body is betraying me, responding to his proximity, the dominance in his voice, the way he touches me.
The door opens again less than a minute later, and Darius returns with a first aid kit and a bottle of water.
“I can do this myself.”
He ignores me, opening the kit and pulling out antiseptic wipes. His hands are unsteady now.
“Darius—”
“Be quiet.”
My mouth snaps shut at the leashed violence in his tone.
He tears open a packet and takes my hand. His touch is impossibly tender despite the tremor running through his fingers. I can feel his pulse hammering where his thumb rests against my wrist.
The antiseptic wipe stings when it touches my broken skin. I don’t flinch.
He does. The wipe tears slightly in his grip.
“You’re shaking,” I say quietly.
His hands still for just a moment. Then, he continues without responding.
I contemplate his face as he works. The hard set of his jaw. The slight furrow of his brow. The way his eyes are fixed on my palm as if it’s the most important thing in the world.
He cleans away the small traces of blood and reaches for the antibacterial cream. As he carefully applies it to each mark, his hands finally begin to steady.
“Darius…”
“Don’t.” The word comes out harshly. “Just…don’t.”
I fall silent, watching as he finishes with one of my hands and moves to the other. The same careful movements. The same impossible gentleness from someone who just had another man by the throat.
When he’s done, he sets the supplies aside and takes hold of my hands. His thumbs trace over the bandages he has applied, so lightly that I barely feel it. But I do feel the warmth of his skin, the calluses on his palms, the way he can’t seem to let go.
“You need to be more careful,” he says finally, his voice tight.
“I was handling it.”
“I know.” His grip tightens slightly. “I know you were. But—” He cuts himself off, his jaw clenching again.
