Page 47 of Kept in the Dark
“What do you think it is?” she asks as I slide it into my pocket.
“A USB drive.”
She rolls her eyes. “What do you think isonit?”
“I could not begin to guess.”
My eyes cut to her as she moves back across the cabin and settles onto the couch, unwrapping one of our last protein bars. “Well, I, for one, would love to—” She freezes with it halfway lifted to her mouth. “Are you bleeding?”
I glance down, following her eyes, and see a small droplet of red against the white cotton. Fuck. I had forgotten. I should have changed so she would not see it.
“It is nothing.”
Setting down the bar, her brows snap together. “What happened?”
Her ire takes me aback enough that I admit, “Just a ripped stitch. Do not concern yourself.”
“Let me see,” she orders in the tone of someone who expects no disagreement. She stands, wiping her hands on her pants, and moves towards me.
I glare at her and cross my arms. Who does she think she is? She will not order me about this way.
Her demeanor shifts in response to my defiance. “May I see?” she corrects herself, slowly reaching for the hem of my shirt.
My jaw clicks as I grind it down, suddenly angry for small, inane reasons—like why it was such a simple matter for her to pivot and ask nicely. She must have no pride to swallow.
Refusing her now feels childish, so I jerk the shirt out of the way, not wishing to put myself through feeling the brush of her fingers against my stomach. I am strung too tightly.
Her frown deepens as she hunches down. “Jesus, what have you been doing? You’re supposed to be taking it easy, but you’ve got one ripped and another almost pulled through.”
“My life cannot stop to coddle an injury.”
She huffs an irritated breath and glances up. “Yeah, well, if you rip another stitch, I’m going to be pissed.”
“They are my stitches to rip,” I grumble, letting my shirt fall and backing away a step.
“Actually,” she counters archly, planting her hands on her hips, “they’remystitches. And they’re an aid, not a fix. They help while your body heals itself; they aren’t armor that means you get to do whatever you want. Show the work I did a little more respect than that, please.”
In spite of myself, my lips twitch in concert with my cock. Her defiance sets my pulse racing. The way she casually expects control makes me want to back her against the wall, silence her with my lips, force a finger deep inside what I am certain is a pretty little pink-brown cunt, and change that attitude for her. I want to wrap a thick hand aroundher smooth throat until the only words that escape her lips are “yes” and “Dimitri.”
Fuck.
I scrub at my hair, leaning into the harsh motion and scratching at my scar.
“Will you let me fix the deeper one?” she asks.
“Very well,” I sigh, preceding her down into the lower cabin.
Though I busy myself with removing my shirt and getting into a comfortable position, resting back on my hands, my eyes remain locked on her as she retrieves the kit. She seems irritated now, and I wonder if it is in response to my own irritation.
She pulls on some latex gloves and moves to sit next to me. “Lay back.”
“No.”
This earns me another irritated noise. “Fine,” she says through a baring of teeth that is not a smile. She stands, spins, and digs an elbow into the mattress to lower herself. Her breast brushes my knee before I understand what she means to do. She grabs my thigh to catch herself.
Instantly, my cock is hard again, throbbing and straining against my pants. All that building tension and desire from when I woke slams back into me at once. The angle… seeing her like this, on her knees before me… “Do not—” I choke out.
She pauses in the act of kneeling, one foot still flat on the floor. Her eyes are round with surprise at my barked order. “What? Why, what’s wrong?”
