I shift my weight, trying to adjust myself without being obvious about it. The adrenaline from the fight's still pumping through my veins, mixing with something else entirely now. Something I haven't felt in longer than I care to admit.
Pure, simple, completely inappropriate desire.
Joanna's digging through a cardboard box on the bottom shelf, her back to me, that oversized hoodie riding up just enough that I can see a sliver of pale skin above her jeans. The curve of her waist. The way her body moves.
Jesus Christ.
I'm throbbing now. Painfully hard. Thank God she's not looking at me because there's no hiding this. Not in the thin fabric of my fight shorts. Not when she's bent over like that, completely oblivious to what she's doing to me.
"Found it," she says, straightening up with a white plastic first aid kit that's probably as old as she is. She sets it on the only clear surface, a narrow counter bolted to the wall and flips it open.
I stand there like an idiot, taking up too much space, not knowing what to do with my hands. With the rest of me that's screaming to get closer to her.
She glances at me, then at the folding chair. "You should sit."
"I'm fine standing."
"Danny." She gives me a look that's part exasperation, part amusement. "You're about a foot taller than me and I can't reach your face while you're standing. Sit. Please."
Right.
I unfold the chair and lower myself onto it, grateful for any excuse to take the pressure off. The metal creaks under my weight but holds. Joanna moves closer, positioning herself between my knees, and my brain completely short-circuits.
She's right there.
Standing between my thighs. Close enough that if I spread my legs even slightly wider, she'd be pressed right against me. Close enough that the smell of strawberries is everywhere, surrounding me, making me light-headed. Close enough that if I leaned forward even slightly, I could rest my forehead against her stomach.
I grip the edges of the chair.
Keep perfectly still. Don't move. Don't breathe too deep. Don't do anything that'll make her realize how badly I want her.
"This might sting," she whispers, pulling out antiseptic wipes.
"I've had worse."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
She unwraps a wipe and reaches for my face. Her hand hovers for a second, uncertain, like she's asking permission. I nod slightly. Her fingers touch my jaw. Gentle, so gentle, tilting my head to get a better angle at the cut above my eye.
The touch sends blood rushing straight down my spine. Straight to my cock, which was already hard and is now straining against my shorts so obviously that I have to resist the urge to adjust myself again.
Not now. Not while she's touching me.
The antiseptic burns when she presses the wipe to it. I don't flinch. Can't flinch. All my focus is on staying absolutely still while every nerve ending in my body is screaming at me to pull her closer.
"You're really good at that," she murmurs.
"At what?"
"Not reacting to pain."
She has no idea how much I'm reacting right now.
"Lot of practice," I manage.
Her eyes flick to mine briefly before returning to the cut. She's concentrating, biting that lower lip again, completely unaware that she's killing me. That every time she leans in closer, every time her warm breath ghosts across my face, every time her body shifts between my legs, I'm dying a little more.
