Page 29 of Blood & Snow
"This will hurt."
"Everything hurts tonight."
He spits out the belt and watches me prepare to suture the wounds.
"Just get it done."
I begin stitching the entry wound first, trying to ignore how my proximity to his body affects my concentration.
He radiates heat and danger in equal measure, a masculine presence that makes my pulse race despite every rational objection my mind produces.
And I can't quite get the rightangle to see properly in this light without being so close my leg is pressing against his.
"Here," he grunts, gripping my hips and repositioning me until I stand with one leg on either side of his knees, straddling him so I can bend over his torso.
It makes warmth rush to my groin.
He's powerful, strong enough that he could steal what he wants from me if he so chose.
But he's gentle, not even so much as touching me inappropriately, though I notice his eyes looking down the front of my sweater which hangs open to give him a full view of my chest.
Fourteen years separate us.
He murders people for a living.
He threatened to kill my family if I disobey his orders.
Every logical reason to fear and avoid him, yet working this close to his half-naked torso creates physical responses I can't control.
My hand brushes against his chest while positioning the bandage, and I feel his body tense beneath my touch.
He feels the sexual tension too.
When I glance at his face, his eyes are fixed on mine and all I see is a lusty haze there.
The recognition sends heat through my body until I'd swear my panties were soaked.
I look away quickly and focus on securing the bandage, but my awareness of his physical presence intensifies rather than diminishes.
"Turn around so I can treat the exit wound," I tell him.
He complies silently, standing in front of me so he towers over me, then turning to sit again, presenting his back for examination.
He has more scars here, layered evidence of a life spent in violence.
I clean and suture the second wound while trying not to think about how his muscles move under my hands, how his breathing changes when I touch him.
"Finished," I announce, stepping back to examine my work.
Xander stands and tests the range of motion in his injured arm.
The bandages hold securely, no fresh bleeding visible through the gauze.
But the painful grimace on his face makes me wince too.
I'm feeling sympathy for this monster.
What the fuck is happening to me?
