Page 27 of The Science of Attraction

“Right.” Liam took a clean piece of gauze and folded it in half. “Also, that was three big words in a row. I’m impressed.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re not as funny as you think you are. And I’ll have you know, a doctor once told me I have a very high pain threshold.”

Liam pressed the gauze pad gently to the wound and I almost leaped out of my chair.

“Jesus fucking Christ!”

He shot me an amused glance. “You were saying?”

I cut him a glare. “Shut up and just get on with it.”

He smirked and set about drying the rest of the wound while I channelled my yelps into exceedingly manly growls. One positive to come from the pain was it distracted me from the fact that Liam had his hands on me—a little lower than I’d fantasised, but beggars can’t be choosers.

And this close to each other, there was also no escaping the familiar citrus scent of his cologne, the brush of his hot body as he bent over my leg, or the way the muscles in his forearms flexed, putting all that colourful ink on display.

Not that I was paying any attention, of course.

Another press of the gauze and another rumbling whine masked as a growl escaped from my lips.

Liam laughed and glanced my way. “Those ridiculous sounds you’re making aren’t fooling anyone.” He threw the instrument of torture in the bin and reached for my phone. “I doubt it needs stitches, but we should check with the professionals.”

He took a photo of the cleaned wound and I sent it through to my doctor in Oakwood who immediately rang back—happy enough for Liam to apply Steri-Strips and bandage the wound. Then he listed a heap of instructions about keeping it clean, and rested, and yada, yada, yada. He finished by saying he didn’t trust any of our squirrelled-away antibiotics and that he’d ring a script through to the pharmacy in Oakwood that my mother could pick up on the way home. When I finally hung up, Liam was smoothing the last of the Steri-Strips in place.

“There. Done.”

I turned my leg to get a better look and had to admit he’d done a bang-up job. “Not too shabby at all.”

He threw me an amused look and reached for the dressing and bandage.

While he tended to that, I focused on him and the way his concentration showed in the cute line cutting between his brows and that hint of a tongue that kept popping out between his lips. Not to mention that tidy goatee, which really was a thing of beauty. If I reached out just a little, I’d be able to run my fingers over its soft edges or through all those silky blond tresses. I imagined them trailing over my skin in the dark, the soft press of his lips, the slide of his body—and Jesus Christ, I was getting hard.

I breathed myself down from the ledge and put a hand on his shoulder, waiting for him to turn around. “I’m sorry I gave you a hard time. You did a great job. Thank you.”

His cheeks took on a rosy glow and those pretty hazel eyes softened into a smile. “You’re welcome.”

His hand covered mine, which refused to move from his shoulder like it was glued in place, and the kitchen fell silent, all except for the soft tick of the grandfather clock standing in the corner.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Neither of us moved.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Hell, I could barely breathe, my heart lurching into my throat as our eyes locked in a question that I couldn’t find the courage to answer.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

It would only take the smallest of stretches to put my lips on his. The brush of his goatee. My tongue sliding into his mouth. To finally know what he tasted like.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

His gaze sharpened, darkened, pupils black as coals in a disappearing hazel pool.

I wanted him and he knew it.

The clocked ticked on.

And on.

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