Page 36 of Love Bound

His face gray, his arms tense, I help him onto his back. Instantly, he travels to another place, closing his eyes and patting me on the arm.

"Thanks for showing up," he says, and then without a gasp, he passes out. His body, so tense, so hard, is limp.

Quickly, working against time, I use forceps and probe the front of the wound, just four inches above that hip. Using my flashlight, I remove a large chunk of rust about half an inch wide and then dump about a cup of iodine inside. Tearing open another packet, I tape it to the point of entry.

Then I stand up, move to the little sink, and quickly wash my hands. Turning back to the bed, I unlace his shoes and gently take them off and his wool socks, tossing everything on the floor. Then I go for his jeans button, the zipper and slowly, gently, peel those pants off, trying hard not look. I pull the covers up. Doing some fast math, guessing his weight at about two-twenty, I fill a syringe of antibiotic and inject it, holding his arm, noting his skin—and his smell, and hating myself for it.

I step away as he moans—deep, guttural—and his eyes open, though he doesn't recognize me for a moment while I pile on more blankets. Stepping out into the hall, I try to adjust the zoned heating for the second floor.

"Doesn’t work," he mumbles.

I trip down the stairs to the thermostat on the first floor and set it to ninety. Heat rises.

Coming back into the room, I see he's got the blankets tucked under his chin, and those eyes are closed.

"Hey, you, did the chimney pass inspection?" I have to ask.

There's no answer. His tan complexion has gone completely gray now, his lips gently parted. I watch for a moment, the rise and fall of the blankets, assured he's still alive.

And then I start shaking. Badly. My legs feel like they're going to give out and I feel a sob coming up from somewhere deep. I am great in a crisis, like my mom, but fall apart later.

But I can't afford to fall apart. The crisis isn't over. I wad up newspapers from one of the other bedrooms, tent some kindling over them and then bigger split wood, and find a box of everstrike matches on the old mantle. The wood is so dry, it only takes minutes to catch. I drag the old, curved, fire screen over, the one with little doves across the top. It used to be Laurel and Devon's.

My dad and I had painted this fireplace. It wasn't fancy, an old iron fireplace, and we had used enamel paint along the sides, in muted greens and oranges and yellows. Now, I feel alone, lost, unmoored.

I catch another glimpse of myself in the dressing table mirror as I turn around. I need a shower.

Keeping the door open a crack so I can hear him, I tilt the shower head toward the wall, step into the clawfoot bathtub, and turn on the hot water. By the time the heat on demand work, my clothes are off in a filthy heap on the floor. Still shaking, my thighs quivering, I reach up and run water through my hair, goosebumps rising. Squeezing the shampoo bottle, I smell him around me.

I start weeping, softly, my thoughts and feelings and water running in every direction.

Chapter Ten

Finn

I fight my way to the surface. Like a man drowning, I focus on breathing, on finding my bearings. My side burns, and I’m not certain I can even lift the blankets. A wave of heat rolls down my body and somewhere, wood from a fire crackles. Slowly, I open my eyes and I'm alone, the light from the fire the only thing keeping me company.

Pipes whine off to the right with a change in water pressure, and as I slowly shift a little under the pile of blankets, there's a thud, like a foot against a door, and my pupils adjust to more light spilling in a shaft from the bathroom. Claire's in there. Before I can really understand what’s happening, she's bent over, her back to me, pulling off heavy socks. Stepping out of her pants she straightens and begins peeling off her sweater, a long sleeve shirt, a tight-fitting lacey tank top. Her arms and hands are shaking, mottled with cold, and her thighs quiver. A long smear of blood runs along her left side, which I see only in flash cuts as she moves in the small space, adjusting the water, grabbing the soap.

I close my eyes and try to control my breathing. I should not be watching her.

But she is right there. Right here.

I steel myself. The fire pops loudly and a log settles. Ice continues to pelt the roof.

In several minutes, after I've heard her detach the hand-held shower head, she sighs, and the sound is so sweet, rising up deep within her diaphragm, that what I have left in reserves, evaporates. It's seduction by sound.

Steam begins to fill the gap in the door. She's standing in there, naked, the shower wand in one hand, the other wiping conditioner or soap or something out of her hair. I hold my breath, knowing I shouldn't be looking, shouldn’t be spying on her. But she is so beautiful, so pure, just standing in a porcelain tub, that water streaming down her body, and I can't help myself.

She's still quivering, still frozen to the core, her dark rosy nipples are hard, her small breasts—round and flawless—in perfect ratio to her ass which is high and curved. Every inch of her looks strong, tight, and her skin turns red, the hot water trying to penetrate those layers of cold.

My trying to look and not look leaves my breath ragged, and within seconds I'm so fucking hard.

So. Fucking. Hard.

I try to adjust, move, do something, but my legs are leaden. All I can do is feel my shaft throb in time, stiffly, with my heart.

The water cuts off, and she crosses the tiny bathroom out of sight, then again in flash cuts—my blue towel, her arm, the sounds of drying off, another little sigh, clothing being slipped on. And then there's Claire, coming through the doorway. Her gaze lights on me for a moment and I'm afraid she sees me watching her, but it's too late. A rush of heat breathes down my chest.