Page 68 of Duty Compromised
“Sit.” Command voice. The same tone she’d used directing her team through complex coding problems. “That needs proper attention.”
I sat on the other bed, becoming acutely aware of how the adrenaline dump was affecting me. The room tilted slightly before steadying. My head throbbed in time with my heartbeat, each pulse sending fresh fire through the wound.
Her fingers were gentle but sure as they parted my hair, examining the gash. I could feel her breath on my neck, warm and somehow soothing.
“This needs stitches,” she murmured.
“Butterfly bandages will have to do.”
She found them in the kit, along with proper antibiotic ointment and sterile gauze. Her movements were determined, exact—the same focus she brought to her code but applied to keeping me functional.
“This is going to hurt,” she warned.
“Can’t be worse than—” The antiseptic hit raw flesh, and I bit back a curse. “Fuck.”
“Sorry.” Her free hand rested on my shoulder, steadying us both. “Almost done.”
She worked in silence, applying each butterfly bandage with careful precision, creating neat closures that would hold better than my half-assed field attempt. The competence in her touch was unexpected—this woman who lived in her head understanding exactly how to tend the physical.
“There.” She examined her work, those green eyes critical. “It’ll hold, but you really should?—”
Her words cut off as I caught her wrist, meaning only to thank her. But suddenly, she was closer than I’d expected, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
“Thank you,” I said softly.
“You got hurt protecting me,” she whispered, her fingers ghosting near the bandage she’d just applied. “You fought them, got wounded, all to keep me safe. Thank you.”
Before I could say anything else, she leaned forward and kissed me.
The moment our mouths met, everything shifted. What started as soft gratitude transformed instantly into something desperate and hungry. The fear, the adrenaline, the narrow escape—it all crashed together into pure need.
I pulled her onto my lap, her legs bracketing my thighs, and she gasped against my mouth. Her hands found my shoulders, fingers digging in like she needed the anchor.
“Charlotte,” I managed, trying to find reason through the haze of want. “You’re exhausted. We should?—”
“I don’t want to think.” Her voice was rough, desperate. “For just a few minutes, I need to not think. Please, Ty.”
The please destroyed what was left of my control. This brilliant woman who’d been carrying impossible weight, who’d stayed strong through terror and betrayal, was asking me for this escape.
I shifted us, pulling back the bedspread, laying her down, taking my weight on my forearms. Her hair spread across the pillow like spilled copper, and her eyes were wide but certain.
“Are you sure?”
Her answer was to pull me down for another kiss, this one hungry and demanding. Her tongue swept against mine, and the taste of her made me groan.
My hands found the hem of her shirt, and she arched up, helping me pull it over her head. Simple cotton bra, practical rather than seductive, but on her, it was perfect. I traced the edge with one finger, watching her shiver.
“Beautiful,” I murmured against her collarbone. “So fucking beautiful.”
She made a sound between a laugh and a sob. “I’m a mess.”
“You’re perfect.” I caught her chin, making her meet my eyes. “You’re incredible. The way you’ve handled everything, the strength you’ve shown?—”
She silenced me with another kiss, her hands working between us to unfasten buttons with fingers that shook slightly. I helped her, shrugging out of my shirt, and her hands immediately explored, mapping scars and muscle with curious touch.
When she found the still-pink scar from the gunshot, she traced it gently, and I caught her hand.
“Old news,” I said. “Doesn’t hurt anymore.” Except for when I was getting pounded on.
