He smiles at me. “You and me both, baby.”
I snort. “You were just waiting to call me that, weren’t you?” I shove his shoulder slightly and he winces but there’s still a smile on his face.
That crooked smile and glittering eyes makes my heart sing in a way I never knew I could feel before. For a man I only met a few weeks ago. It seems crazy, but wilder things have happened in my life.
Bloodier and nastier things.
So, this good thing? I plan on holding onto it.
“Maybe a little, it just came out,” Damian replies.
I shake my head, then continue to wipe at his face until it’s mostly clean of blood and sweat. I toss the rag to the side and grab a dry one, rubbing along the beads of water left over on his bare skin.
“If I could kill them again for hurting you, I would.” My brow furrows as I dry him off and take a look at the wounds left in his flesh.
“I’d rather they hurt me than you,” Damian admits.
The heat in my neck starts to travel down to my stomach and groin. Warm and pulsing.
“You could’ve died,” I remind him.
He puts a hand over mine and the washcloth. “I know. It’d have been worth it.”
The dry cloth is discarded and I lean in to press my lips to his again. This time harder. He gasps softly and I slide my hand upto his cheek, feeling the smooth skin between several small cuts there.
My breath catches in my throat at the taste of him. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. Unique to him. Musky and sweet all the same.
Damian places his hand on my thigh and I realize just how close we are as we sit on the edge of the tub.
I open my eyes and move back. “Let me make sure you don’t need stitches,” I insist.
He whines softly. “Do we have to?” He leans in again but I don’t let him catch my mouth.
“I don’t know about you but I’m not interested in taking care of you if you get sepsis, Day.” I grab his arm. He lets me.
I look over his wounds one by one, ignoring the small cuts and the shallow wounds, but there’s a couple larger and deeper slices that could definitely use some stitches and dressing.
I lean over to the cabinet under the sink just nearby and pull out the first aid kit. It’s got a few extra things that might not be in there for the average person. A sterile needle and the appropriate thread being one of them.
“You know, I had to sew up my own wounds a few years ago in Cuba,” Damian tells me.
“Is that where the scars on your thighs came from?” I ask as I prepare the needle.
He shakes his head. “No, but close. Knife to the stomach.” He looks down briefly. “It’s barely visible now.”
“I took a knife to the side a year ago, still hurts if I bend too far to the right,” I explain.
“Most of my scars hurt when it’s raining, but not any other time.” Damian’s face pinches slightly as I start to stitch up one of the wounds on his arm.
“Don’t like needles?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Who does?”
I laugh. “You’d be surprised. I know a guy who likes to be?—”
Damian cuts me off with a clicking of his tongue and I roll my eyes at him.
“Go through all this and can’t hear about a little needle play,” I tease him, motioning over his body.
