A Little Night Muse(22)

                She lifted something and faced him again. “Can you do this for                     me?”

                He would do anything. With difficulty, he fastened his gaze on                     the satchel and the small pot she withdrew from the interior. “What...” He                     cleared his throat. “What is it?”

                “For my wrists.”

                He walked his gaze up her skin. Of course. The blood-streaked                     bandages. He should have done something about them before. Focus, damn it. He                     drew a steadying breath, but the fragrance of her made his head spin.

                “Let me wash my hands.” His voice was still a little rough.

                He walked past her, ignoring her surprised look, and headed for                     the bathroom. He shut the door behind him.

                After turning on the water—cold—he leaned with his hands braced                     on the sink. He couldn’t see anything in the moisture-clouded mirror except a                     vague outline of his face. Almost like he hadn’t been able to see, hear or think                     clearly since he’d found her. Was he that hard up?

                He reached down to adjust himself through his jeans. Hell yeah,                     he was that hard.

                He could probably scramble out through the bathroom window, but                     she needed his help and he’d never been the sort to run away. By the time he                     finished washing his hands and splashing cold water down the back of his neck,                     the mirror had cleared. He looked like a man with a mission.

                When he returned to the bedroom, Adelyn was sitting in the                     middle of the bed. The only bed in the house. His bed. Against the red tartan                     flannel of the thick comforter, her skin glowed. With her legs curled under her,                     the towel hitched even higher on her thighs. A dark triangle of space between                     the bridged edge of the towel and her skin centered directly over what would be                     her other dark triangle.

                So much for the cold water.

                “Let’s see those wrists.” If he did this quickly, he might get                     out with dignity intact.

                She held out both wrists at once, and the knot of the towel                     between her breasts slackened. Not enough to fall open, but enough.

                He refused to watch the slow loosening. He grabbed the pot from                     the satchel and popped the cork top out. Instead of the oily reek of bag balm,                     the scent of flowers—not too sweet, but wild, like meadow flowers—filtered                     through the room.