Page 37 of Love Bound

But no, she's leaning in the door jamb, pulling on clean socks and moccasins, dressed in faded blue jeans, a white turtleneck, and a heavy black pullover.

It's so hot in here, how can she dress like that? And then I see her shiver. Still cold. After dragging a rocker from the corner, she sits by the fire, drying her hair for a few minutes.

Still, I say nothing. My dick is smooth as glass and just as hard. Now she starts finger combing her curling mane of hair and twists it up into itself, into a bun, and the firelight catches the blonde strands as she rises, pauses, and then crosses the small space to me.

I need to move, to adjust myself. To feel her, to be in her.

Never, ever have I felt like this.

It's as if my body can't take one more sensory input. I feel her small weight on the edge of the bed as she settles next to me and I can smell peppermint castile soap on her skin. I stiffen even more. I can hardly control my breathing and when she turns on the lamp by the nightstand, an involuntary moan escapes me.

"Finn," she says, her voice soft, "do you need morphine?"

I find my voice. "What? No. No, I'm good."

Her silence makes me feel guilty. She wants to do something.

"I'm damn hot though," I admit.

"You must burn hot. It’s not that warm in here," she says, and I see that the tips of her fingers are still white. She stands up and reaches for some stuff on the nightstand. "Do you think you can stand? I still need to clean that cut on your shoulder, and I want to change the sheets."

I look down and there's blood everywhere, dark stains mixed with dirt. After raising my arm, I grab the edge of the last blanket in the layers—a green comforter—and with her help, I manage to swing my legs to the floor.

Claire comes around, slips an arm around my left side, and her touch— her hand on my skin—makes my dick rub against the blanket. Pain shoots down my right side and I pitch forward slightly, afraid I’ll make her fall. Then I lean against the nightstand with one hand, the other still holding the comforter around my waist.

Jesus.

She lets go and within minutes, she's pulled off the bloodied linens and the shower curtain and smoothed on clean charcoal gray cotton sheets. As soon as the bedding is ready on my side, I ease myself down on the edge of the bed.

Claire snaps on rubber surgical gloves and cleans my shoulder blade, rubbing antibiotic cream on me. "Here," she says. "Stand back up for a sec. Over here, by the bathroom door.

I must not look eager because she adds, "I'll be fast."

And she is. With my back to her, she takes a small bowl of hot water and a little blue washcloth and cleans my back in long movements, like she’s wiping down a horse. Then she comes around to the front but decides she needs to get fresh water first.

When she comes back from the bathroom, her hair is nearly dried. Her eyes, startling blue, look almost crystalline.

When she touches me, my chest quivers.

"I'm sorry. Did that hurt?” she asks.

I shake my head.

"Let's get this over with," she says, and with the lightest touch, Claire cleans the blood and dirt off. Her cold hands spread against my chest.

I ache at my core.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I let her help me back to bed because it pulls on my side too much to try and lift my legs. She's made a pile of pillows so I don’t have to lie down—sitting up feels so much better.

It's not until that top sheet comes down that I’m ready to let go of the green comforter, and she pulls it out and shakes it down on top of me again. I clumsily try to re-layer the blankets back over my legs, my stomach, and most critically, my groin.

And though she helps, her face is scrunched in preface to a question. "I thought you were too hot?"

I am. That's the whole problem.

Small, cold hands ease me down under the covers and pull them across my chest, but she's careful not to let any weight touch my right side. I can’t look at her anymore. Somehow, though, closing my eyes and trying to feign sleep is almost worse.