“Did anybody warn you before they shot you?” I ask him as I take a look at the bullet wood. It’s not very deep, thankfully, but it’s right nearby the scarring from a previous injury.
“Real funny.” Carmine attempts to grab the needle nose pliers from my hand, I pull it back. “I can do this myself.”
“What? Just cause you have before?” I ask him pointedly, and then shove him to sit back the way he was with my free hand. The gauze and a bottle of water resting against his other leg.
“You keep helping me, but there’s something I don’t understand,” he tells me.
I ignore him, and just hand him a wad of gauze. “You’re gonna wanna bite down on something.”
He takes it from me but doesn’t put it in his mouth. “First, tell me what was up in there.”
I ignore him once more.
I can’t tell him that I helped set him up, it’d ruin the entire job. But maybe I’ve already done that.
How exactly am I going to explain to Eivor that Carmine isn’t dead, nor brutally injured at the very least, because I swooped in and saved him at the last second? There’s no way that can go down without me getting my ass handed to me.
“Bite down,” I warn him instead of giving him an answer.
I start to dig into the wound to find and pull out the bullet. It’s not deep, but I know it still hurts like hell. I see Carmine shove the gauze in his mouth at the last second and he groans.As my fingers and the pliers dig into his bloody soft flesh and muscle, he writhes underneath me in the most tantalizing way.
Something about the way his breath catches as he pants for it through his nose, and his hips squirm as he struggles to keep composure… It’s incredibly hot. It shouldn’t be, not in this moment, but it is.
“You’re hot when you’re in pain,” I tell him at the same second that I pull the bullet out of his calf and drop it into half of an empty can. It clinks and rolls. Then more blood starts to spew out of the open wound.
Carmine’s words are nothing but muffled sounds but I swear he says something like,fuck you Soren.
I laugh once and then pour some water on the wound to clear it out, before grabbing the needle and medical thread. It’s a bit old, though clean, and if I stitch too tightly it might snap and I’ll have to start all over. I decide doing one stitch at a time is a better option than carrying them along the skin.
Carmine spits the gauze out and grabs me by the hair where I kneel at the end of the chair.
“You sick motherfucker, you better hurry up,” he growls.
His fingers in my hair only turn me on more, the tight way they grip me. The intensity of his voice, how strong and wild he looks. He’s smaller than me, sure, but right now I’m the one on my knees and he’s the one with his nails against my scalp.
“You keep this up and I’ll be fuckin’ you instead of fixin’ you,” I tell him.
His face goes even more red and he lets go of me before leaning back and gripping the arms of the recliner with white knuckles.
“That’s not happening again,” Carmine grumbles.
I smirk to myself, but then my expression falls as I focus on stitching his wound up. Not because I’m so deep in focus, but because he should be right.
He is right. What happened twice before really shouldn’t happen again, and I want to be able to say the same thing; that it won’t.
I can’t.
I don’t want it to.
I mean, I want it to. I want it to happen again, more than I’ve ever wanted anything before.
I want to feel his hot naked body against my own, under it, on top of it, beside it…I don’t fucking care. Bloody and covered in sweat, or clean and smelling linen fresh, it doesn’t really matter to me.
It’s difficult to ignore these thoughts as I work on him, but soon I finish up and toss the stuff I was using into the can as well.
“You’re gonna need a new pair of jeans,” I comment casually before standing up. The blood rushes from my head to my legs, and I feel dizzy for a second but place a hand on the arm of the chair to steady myself.
Carmine sucks in a breath. “I don’t care about the jeans.”
