Page 9
Confusion – which is admittedly better than horror – can be heard clearly in his tone, “What?”
“Am a bleeder,” springs free in a lower, more frantic volume.
“Need a tampon?”
Mortification – although I honestly don’t know if it’s over his offer or my poor phrasing – morphs onto my face the same time I slam my oversized green jute shoulder accessory onto the desk. “No, I mean…” Incoherent frustrated mumbles fumble themselves past my lips during my frantic one-handed scouring. “I don’t clot right.”
“You clot wrong?”
“I have a vitamin K deficiency, brought on by fat malabsorption – I.E. my small intestine struggles to properly absorb dietary fats – so I bruise like a banana, could eat your weight in chocolate bagels and bleed like I’ve endured a Jaws attack from even a seemingly tiny,” my fingers manage to find the small sandwich bag I keep emergency medical supplies in, “papercut.”
“Intense.”
“That’s,” angling my hand to catch the blood rather than let it leak onto the floor barely precedes using my teeth to assist in opening the plastic storage aid, “onewordforit.”
Unfortunately for me – yet pretty on brand for my existence – getting the contents out becomes my Mount Everest of improbable goals to accomplish.
My teeth gracelessly grip the edge.
I whip my head back and forth.
Eyeball the rushing red down my palm.
Mumble and grumble and make other sounds strictly reserved for rabid wildlife until the dark jeans wearing observer carefully removes the object from my mouth.
Effortlessly does what I was struggling to do.
Takes it upon himself to remove a single packet alcohol wipe.
Watching him use his teeth to rip it open paints delicious images of a different, individually wrapped item being treated the same way.
Except I’m on my back.
And he’s on his knees.
Hovering above me.
Amber eyes hooded and chest heaving and cock inches from an easy slip in.
The type of slip in you want, that you’ll welcome, that you’ll likely regret later, but that’s a later you’s problem, so you kick it out of your head to enjoy the person who’s in your bed.
Heart.
Heat fastidiously flushes my face prompting me to look away; however, Hogan swiftly robs me of that action.
He takes my blood stained hand and nimbly wipes and presses the sanitized piece on the cut itself before using his other hand to retrieve the small gauze, band aid, and second wipe.
His ability to shift the materials in order for them to do their designated job occurs with such minimal effort that I mindlessly murmur, “You’re really good with your hands.”
Hogan doesn’t hesitate to smirk. “I know.”
Ugh.
I hate myself right now.
Correction.
I hate myself in his presence period.
