Page 6 of Healing with the Mountain Man
God, I want to take care of her in every way possible. Can’t she see how much it’s tearing at me that I can’t allow myself to hover?
She’s an adult, an independent young woman who has barely learned of the hardships of this world. Hardly twenty-one or two years old. So, why do I want to treat her like she’s the complete opposite?
A jolt races up my arm, tingling from the moment our bodies make contact. My whole body locks up, refusing to budge like I’m experiencing a full-body shutdown.
She’s grinning, smug as hell, but I can’t even look at her face.
I’m too busy staring at my traitorous fingers, still buzzing like she left lightning under my skin. Curling my fingers, I pull back and frown as she abandons the table to clean her plate.
“I’m not going to be some leech. I’ll clean up after myself. So, if there is anything I can do around here to pay you back for what you’re doing—” She lets the water run long after the suds no longer cling to the porcelain. “—just say the word. Anything, I mean it.”
She clutches the plate as water droplets drip against her arm, tracing the length of her veins. When my frown deepens, she groans in return.
“I’m serious, Dean. I know I might not be good at a lot of things, but—”
Cut in the middle of her sentence, a loud bang hits somewhere outside, nothing like the thunder we’ve heard in the passing hours. It’s enough to spook her, making her jump before the disk slips from her fingers.
Whatever caused the bang kills the lights, plunging the kitchen into darkness. A sharp gasp follows, the crash of shattering ceramic, then the low groan of a hiss between clenched teeth.
The generator kicks in. Weak light floods back. Takes no time at all to figure out the reason behind the noise.
There she is—crouched on the floor, fingers pressed to a bleeding cut on her palm while her other hand clutches a shard too sharp.
“Clumsy,” she mutters, but her voice wavers. Her eyes are wide, like the cut has surprised her as much as it has me. Her skin is pale, like she’s unsure of what to do next. How in the world has she managed all by herself if a cut has thrown her for a spin?
Unlike her frozen form, I’m moving toward her without a thought passing.
I don’t ask. Just grab her wrist, turning her hand over. A jagged slice, welling red. My thumb brushes the edge, and she shudders.
“Not even a day has passed, and you’ve hurt yourself.” My voice comes out rough, thick enough to choke on the words. “Now I’m gonna have to work extra hard to take care of you.”
A beat. Then, too soft, too honest, like the words come out without much thought behind them.
“…I’d like that.” Three words with enough weight to leave a man like me wrecked and forgetting how to do something as simple as function properly.
The air between us goes heavy. My eyes flick up toward her mouth, and I catch her biting her lip like she’s trying to stop more words from spilling out.
Her blush burns brighter than the cut. She doesn’t meet my gaze, but she doesn’t have to. The damage is done.
We want the same thing. The question is, how far can I let myself give in without crossing the line that needs to be between us?
If I cross it, there’s no chance of going back.
I don’t shy away from the line by letting my fingers linger longer than they should. “Let’s get you to the table, and I can find the first aid kit.”
Alani doesn’t budge. “I’ll get blood everywhere.”
The cut is hardly deep enough to act like a geyser, but there are a few droplets against the tile. Even as she presses into the cut, another drop falls.
“You’re stubborn, you know that?” She gets it from Lewis. Hardly rushing to prove me wrong with a layer of silence, I curse under my breath and rush out of the kitchen to find the kit. When I come back, I find that she’s made herself quite comfortable on the counter.
“If you look to your left, you may see a blood smudge, but I’ll clean it up.” Her heels brush against the cabinet doors. “Figured it might be less of a hassle if I were your height.”
The corner of her mouth twitches. She thinks she’s being helpful.
All she’s done is put herself right where I’ve dreamed her—knees parted, all too welcoming with her body tilted toward me like an invitation.
It takes everything in me not to step between those thighs, not to cage her against the counter, and finally find out if her mouth tastes as sweet as it looks.
