Page 18 of A SEAL's Protection
“I didn’t notice.”
“Take your shirt off.”
Marcus cocks an eyebrow at me. “I usually like to be bought a drink first.”
I shake my head, trying not to laugh, but my cheeks heat as Marcus tugs his hiking shirt over his head and peels it off. It clings to the congealed blood on his arm, and he grits his teeth as he tugs it free. But it’s not the wound I’m staring at. Marcus is ripped.
His tanned body is hard muscle with rolling abs and a soft dusting of dark hair that trails down the V and into his cargo pants. There’s not a scrap of softness to him.
Marcus coughs, and my gaze snaps to his. I’ve been caught staring at his abs with my mouth popped open.
He smirks as if he knows exactly what I’ve been thinking about. Heat flares in my cheeks, and I focus on the scrape on his arm, fighting to regain composure.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“That I have abs? I didn’t want you finding any excuse to get close to me. But you already threw your tent away.”
I roll my eyes. “That you got hurt.”
The scrape starts at his forearm and goes up his bicep. It’s deep enough that it bled through his top.
He shrugs. “It wasn’t critical.”
Damn soldier, downplaying an injury that we should have stopped to clean up when it happened two hours ago.
“I’m getting my med kit. Sit on that log and don’t move.”
“Yes ma’am.” His lips tug up in a smile, and his eyes dance.
I feel that smile all the way to my bones. Marcus has spent the entire day being a hard-ass, but when he smiles, especially when he has his shirt off, it’s devastating.
I pull the first aid kit out of my pack and kneel next to Marcus, ignoring his hard, half-naked body that’s slick with sweat.
There’s grit in the cuts, and the first thing I need to do is wash it out. I’m annoyed he didn’t stop to do it on the trail. He must know how easily it can get infected.
I take up my water bottle and, without warning, pour it over the wound. He hisses through his teeth but doesn’t flinch.
“I need to get underneath. Is it okay if I touch you?”
When I glance up, he’s watching me, and his expression is unreadable.
“Like I said, I prefer to be wined and dined before letting a lady touch me.” He lets out a theatrical sigh. “But you’re insistent…”
His eyes dance with mirth, and I shake my head. The humor makes it easier to take his arm and hold it up to inspect the scrape.
I dab antiseptic on the length of the cuts. I sense his eyes on me, but I don’t dare look at him. I focus on what I’m doing, trying not to get distracted by how hard he feels, how solid he is underneath my fingertips, and the musky scent ofhis perspiration and earth and something that’s so masculine it makes my head swim.
My hand trembles, but I tell myself it’s from the shock of the day. Not the proximity of a half-naked man with abs of steel. It’s irritating, this unsettling feeling. It shouldn’t feel this intimate to tend to someone’s cuts.
“I’m going to wrap it to keep the cuts from reopening in the night.”
He doesn’t say anything, and when I glance up, he’s watching me intently. The orange light from the fire flickers across his face, and his dark eyes appear black in the firelight.
I want to ask him what I’ll do for shelter tonight, but I don’t trust myself with the inevitable answer. Not when we’re this close.
I fumble in my haste to wrap his arm, and the end of the bandage rolls out of my grasp. He snatches it before it hits the ground and holds it out to me.
Our eyes lock, and there’s a zap of electricity through my body. He’s too close, so I stand up quickly.
