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“Don’t ask,” she mutters. “There was an incident at a restaurant. And before you get all caveman-y, I slipped. There were no bad guys involved. Just me wearing heels on a very slippery floor.”
“Oh, shit. Yeah, go do what you need to do.”
“Thanks.” Before she can protest, I reach out and lift her in my arms, carrying her bridegroom-style toward the back.
“Rage!” She lets out a squeak of protest. “Put me down before you sprain something!”
That makes me laugh.
“You’re funny,” I say. “You think I don’t lift more than this every day at the gym?”
“I weigh…a lot.”
I roll my eyes. “By whose standards? Certainly not mine.”
“Society’s standards.”
“Society is stupid.” I stride into the ladies locker room since there’s no one else here and set her on the bench. “Tell me which locker is yours.”
“Fifteen.”
They’re all numbered so I open it—we don’t lock anything here, it’s not necessary—and look over at her. “What do you need so I can put it all close to the shower for you.”
I see her bristle but then she just sighs, almost as if she can’t bother fighting anymore. Which is a good thing because I’m not going to let her win until I decide whether or not she needs a doctor.
She tells me what to grab and I gather everything. I set it all on the bench beside her and then squat down. “Let me see your ankle.”
She lifts her foot, and I run my hands over an area that’s a little swollen but I don’t think it’s serious. I press on a few places, asking if it hurts, and then rotate her ankle in one direction and then the other.
“It’s fine,” she says quietly. “I roll my ankle every so often. It’ll be sore for a few days and then back to normal.”
“I’m going to take you into the shower, and then I’ll get an Ace bandage out of my locker. Once you’re dressed, I’ll wrap it for you.”
I see that same annoyance flicker in her eyes, but then she drops her gaze. “Okay. Thank you.”
I scoop her up again and carry her into the shower area, with her holding her things. “Yell when you’re dressed,” I say. “I’ll come get you.”
“I can walk, Rage.”
“Not until I wrap your ankle.”
Our eyes meet, and she seems to be trying to decide how to respond. Then she just nods, her face devoid of expression or emotion. “Okay. Thanks.”
I’m surprised she gave in so easily. I don’t want to fight with her, nor do I want to make her uncomfortable, but there’s no reason not to let me help. We’re colleagues. She hurt herself, and I’m fairly skilled as a medic. Not for anything serious, but cuts and bruises, sprains and strains, things like that. If I thought the injury was serious I would force her to go to an ER.
Luckily, it’s not necessary.
Of course, now I’m thinking about her in the shower.
Naked.
This preoccupation is starting to annoy me, but I can’t deny the effect she has on me whenever we’re in the same room together. And carrying her? I finally had her in my arms and she was perfect. Soft and warm and sexy.
Physically, she’s my ideal. She’s about six feet tall and a big, beautifully curved woman. I’ve jerked off more than once imagining my face buried in her breasts or picturing her riding my cock. For a big guy like me, a woman who’s five feet tall and weighs ninety pounds is intimidating. I’ve always been worried about hurting a woman like that just by virtue of my sheer bulk.
And I’ve dated women who fit that description. I don’t discriminate, but I do worry. I’m not just tall—six five and about two forty at the moment—but I have big hands, long legs, and a lot of muscle. If I’m honest, I’m big…everywhere.
I had a girlfriend in college who was a petite little thing. Gorgeous and brilliant, I liked her a lot, but we really struggled in the bedroom. Not only were there many positions we simply couldn’t manage because of the difference in height, I hurt her with the size of my dick.
