Page 142 of Fixation
On the bed, she goes.
“I thought we were over this.” I fake impatience.
She punches my shoulder while I restrain her left wrist. Throws another punch.
“Enough.” I grip her right wrist, binding her to the rails. “In case you haven’t noticed, I could’ve killed you dozens of times. When you were admitted here. In your home. While you slept. Yet you still came to me for help. Said you had nowhere else to go.”
I stifle a groan when I cup one of her breasts over her shirt. My thumb brushes over a hardened nipple. I pleasure her. I also feel for her pulse, groaning at her indignant gasp.
“And look at you. Still alive.”
One minute, she’s moaning, squeezing her eyes shut. The next, she shakes her head.
Resilience flashes across her face. Jaw clenched, eyes defiant. My blood roars. Fuck, that’s hot.
“Werner isn’t,” she spits out.
My grip on her breast becomes bruising. Punishing. “You care?”
“Oh my God. Oh my God. You actually did it.”
“Do. You. Care?”
I twist the soft flesh in my hand. Pull. Tug. Make it hurt. The fact that she isn’t wearing a bra works in my favor.
“Why? Oh—ow!” The new wave of pain has her arching her back. I bet she’s soaked. I’m dying to have a taste of her. “He asked me out. You can’t go killing people who ask me out. We’re not even dating.” Her teeth bare in a snarl. “Dr. Maguire.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Miss Arlington.” I lean in, biting her nipple through her shirt.
“Stop!” she says, she moans. She wants me.
“You’re my patient.” I release her. All the blood in my body rushes south at the sounds of her panting. “My neighbor.” Ignoring it, I walk over to the foot of the bed. Restraining the ankle that hasn’t swelled. Our gazes clash. “Mine.”
I have to hand it to Harper. Despite coming to me for help, despite the evident bruising, she fights. Maybe that’s another layer of her. Another thing she wants from me.
A beast to tame the woman who rules the world. A master to give her comfort. A place to lower her guard, to be herself.
“You’re begging me to take you. To be mine.” Christ, even running my fingertip over the arch of her foot is erotic. “Fuck, that’s exactly why you’re here. Such a fucking tease. A temptation.”
“I came to you so you could tell me I was wrong. That you didn’t kill him.” Her eyebrows are so high they reach her hairline. “Did you?”
“We’re done talking about him.” I lift her foot by her heel to examine her. There’s mild scraping crisscrossing her ankle.
With my other hand, I gently press my fingers to her wound. The area is warm to the touch, not hot.
She growls, but doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shout in pain.
“Does this hurt?” On the off chance that she faking it, or being brave, I ask again. I trace my hand over the ligament totest for a tear. It takes everything in me to focus on her injury when I’m this close to tearing into her sweet pussy. “Here?”
Her red hair sways when she shakes her head. “Why did you kill him?”
“When did I say that?” I touch her far too intimately as I search for fractured bones. I’m stroking rather than checking.
“You”—she grits her teeth, frustrated and beautiful—“did it.”
“Nothing broken or sprained. Just tenderness. That’s reassuring.”
Placing her foot down and releasing her from my hold is torture. I’ve never had a foot fetish. Never considered any part of the body particularly sexual. Fuck. Gotta distract myself. Take care of her.
