Page 94 of Cyber Revenge

“Don’t tempt me.” His voice is low, dangerous, but his lips brush gently against mine, making my heart stutter.

I melt into him, sighing softly as his warmth envelops me, but the ache in my ribs pulls me back to reality.

“Easy,” he says, pulling back just enough to press his forehead against mine. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You could never,” I whisper, my fingers brushing against the back of his neck. Trip doesn’t just take care of me. He worships me.

For the past week, he hasn’t let me do a damn thing. He cooks. He cleans. He carries me to the bathroom every single time, refusing to let me walk on my own because he’s terrified I’ll hurt myself.

And when it was hard for me to twist the first few times– when the pain made it difficult to do the most basic things–he even offered to wipe my ass.

I was mortified.

“Trip, I can handle it,” I’d whispered, my face burning as I sat on the edge of the toilet, wincing with every movement.

But he’d knelt in front of me, his eyes dark and filled with nothing but love and devotion.

“Let me take care of you, killstreak,” he murmured, his hands gentle as he brushed his knuckles against my knee.

I’d cried. And he’d wiped my ass. I should have been humiliated, but he cared about me enough to not give a shit how gross it was. As long as he was taking care of me, he was happy.

No man has ever loved me like this.

Now, a week later, he’s still treating me like I’m made of glass.

“I’m fine, Trip,” I whisper, my fingers tracing over the curve of his jaw.

His eyes soften, but the worry is still there, buried beneath the darkness that never truly left.

“I just…” He exhales slowly, his forehead pressing against mine. “I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t.” My lips brush against his, a promise whispered into the space between us. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He kisses me again, slower this time, his lips moving over mine like he’s memorizing me all over again.

But then he stops. “You need to eat.”

I groan, pulling back just enough to glare at him.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” His lips twitch, but his eyes are firm. “Fruit. Now.”

“Bossy,” I mutter, but I don’t argue as he feeds me.

Literally. One piece at a time. And when I try to protest, he just gives me that look–the one that makes my pulse race and my thighs clench.

So I let him.

Days pass in a blur of Trip’s unwavering devotion.

He carries me everywhere.

Everywhere.

From the couch to the bathroom. From the bed to the kitchen. And when I tell him I can walk, that I’m fine…

He doesn’t listen.

---