Page 30 of Kingpin

“Israel, let me pre-treat those clothes for you.”

His body finally stopped moving, and I took a timid step toward him. His back straightened, but I heard him grunt. Shit. He was hurt.

“Israel, let me help,” I pleaded softly.

He still didn’t answer me, but he did turn around.

When his face came into view, I felt my eyes water. He had a black eye and a bloodied nose. His lip was split, and he had a small gash across his cheekbone. My heart sank to my feet as I approached him slowly, not wanting to spook him like some scared animal. His eyes held mine. The stern look on his face made my brain scream at me to run.

Run, Bonnie. Get away from him. He’s bad news. He’s going to kill you.

I didn’t listen.

Instead, I reached out for the buttons on his shirt and began unbuttoning them.

“I can pre-treat these before you take them to the dry cleaners. Or, if you need me to, I can burn them in the fireplace. Whichever you think is appropriate.”

“That what your father does?”

I ignored the question. “I don’t think that gash is going to require stitches. But you need some ice on that eye.”

“I have it handled.”

“Obviously, by the look of your clothes.”

He stood there as I slid his shirt off his arms. Next, I pulled his undershirt over his head, and for the first time, I saw his body beneath the clothes. His lean arms pulsed with muscles, his forearms fraught with veins. As I gazed upon his back at the chiseled muscles, I felt my mouth run dry.

My God. He’s gorgeous.

“My pants,” he said.

His voice pulled me from my trance. “I’m pretty sure your leather belt is done for. It’s soaked, and that won’t come out.”

“Then burn it instead of disposing of it.”

I walked back around to his front. “Noted.”

I slid the belt from the loops and unbuttoned his pants. I helped him out of his clothes, all the way down to his boxers. I tried my best not to stare. Not to gaze at his throbbing thighs or his rippling abs. I tried not to lick my lips at the sight of his pelvic lines disappearing beneath the band of his underwear. But it was hard.

All I wanted was to run my tongue across them.

“I’ve got dinner downstairs and cooked—”

“I’ve already eaten,” he said mindlessly.

“Then let me bring you some fresh tea. Or some wine.”

“I’m fine.”

“Israel.”

His eyes met mine. “Yes?”

I sighed. “Let me help you clean up. If you won’t eat, then let me tend to you.”

“You’re already taking care of my clothes. That’s enough.”

“Israel, just—”

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