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His nod lets me know he heard me, but his attention is all focused on his phone. I pull the left leg of my pants up to check on my ankle. And damn, it’s already getting swollen. I turn it left and right, biting hard on my fisted hand to stop my whimper.
“Here.” Mr. Hottie lays a bag of frozen peas on it, making me hiss. But the cold is actually helping with the pain.
“Thanks…”
“Raphael,” he says. Even his name is posh.
“I’m Michael.”
“Michael.” He repeats it slowly, like he’s savoring the sound on his tongue, while his eyes are doing that intense stare again. Taking every detail in. It’s overwhelming and exhilarating at the same time.
His phone vibrates and, after checking it, his eyes fall on my hand. “You’re bleeding.” He sounds angry, but his grip around my fingers is light.
“It’s not my blood. I scratched the guy’s face,” I tell him.
He smiles at me. And my breath gets sucked away. He’s stunning.
“Attaboy.”
I gasp at hearing his praise for some obscure reason.
He disappears for a few seconds, leaving me utterly confused and feeling all tingly inside. When he comes back, he’s holding a few things in his hands.
Crouching down next to me, he pulls a small cotton swab out of a bag, and, gripping my hand again, he starts scraping under my nails, positioning a small plastic bag under it.
“Mmm, you shouldn’t touch it. The police could find some DNA from under my nails, and it’d be easier for them to… identify the robber.” But that’s exactly what he’s doing. Gathering evidence. He keeps going, ignoring me, and I don’t pull my hand back. But I should… right?
“I’m a forensic pathologist,” I say instead.
He stops and looks at me. Those juicy lips are lifted on one side, and the crooked effect makes my balls draw tight. This guy has a weird power over my body. And by the smug expression on his face, I guess he knows it. He doesn’t seem put off by my job, which usually makes people wary around me.
He lets go of my hand and seals the cotton swaps inside plastic bags before pushing them in his pocket. I want to ask him about that, but Mr. Polinisky is back.
“Bastard!” he swears. I guess he didn’t catch the robber. He makes a spitting noise.
“Police is coming,” he states in a very strong Slavic-accented voice.
Raphael’s body seems to stiffen for a second. “The ambulance is coming, as well,” he tells me.
“That’s not necessary…” I start, but he cuts me off.
“Are you hurt somewhere else?” He slides his eyes up and down my body, making me almost tremble like a schoolgirl. His concerned attention strangely soothes me.
“No, and my ankle is only sprained. I don’t need…”
“Yes, you do. Now sit tight, babe. I see the lights of a police car coming.”
Babe?
He softly kisses the palm of my hand before standing up and walking toward the two officers. My gaze follows his tight, juicy ass, but my mind is replaying the kiss in slow motion. His bright, vivid green eyes lifting to mine and then closing to completely revel the moment when his soft, warm lips made contact with my skin.
I felt his hot breath on my hand for a swift moment—I fist my fingers, stupidly trying to capture it and push it under my skin. I want those lips on me. Want to taste them. All of him. But the burn in my ankle reminds me what will happen. I’ll give my statement. Go home. Shower. Rest. And wallow in my loneliness.
I grab my phone and call Grand View, letting the pathology department know that I won’t be able to come in for a few days.
A few minutes later, Raphael and the officers stop in front of me. They take my name and ask me what happened. I try to give a precise retelling of the events, but it’s not easy with Raphael’s body pushing against my shoulder. Or having the amazing smell of his leather jacket mixed with his scent entering my nose.
When I tell them about the scratches I caused on the robber’s face, I feel Raphael’s body pushing harder against me.
