Get your shit together, Dylan.
I check the sole, looking for injury. When I find none, I place it gently back down and lift the other one.
Tessa hisses when I pass my hand underneath, so I take a closer look. A dark spot catches my eye. A small wound, and something lodged inside, like a thorn or a bit of stone. Were there thorns in the grass?
“Stay still,” I say as I try to pry the foreign body out of her foot. She whimpers when I manage. I frown at the splinter—or is it a thorn after all? “You stepped on something sharp.” I hold it out for her to see, and she bites her lip. “You got a first aid kit?”
“In the bathroom,” she says, again in that faint voice, and all I wanna do is gather her back in my arms and hold her.
Instead, I make myself get up and go look for her bathroom. I find it after the third try—after having opened doors into a luxurious bedroom with a double bed, another bedroom with a single bed and a laundry room. Mirrors seem to be the theme in the entire building, and I almost walk into a glass partition that separates the shower from the rest of the room.
Jesus H. Christ.
I finally locate the first aid kit in a cupboard by the door and retreat to the living room, feeling out of my depth and a slightly bit terrified.
This is serious money. As if I hadn’t guessed all these years. I mean, she was at the gala as a guest, whereas I work security for spare change.
The gala. Where I should be right now, in fact.
Fuck.
I return to the sofa to find Tessa has put her hands down. Her lashes hide her eyes as I take my place again at her feet and open the first aid kit. I know she’s watching me while I clean the small wound with a disinfectant spray and take out a Band-Aid.
My hands go through the motions without conscious thought on my part. I’m so used to treating injuries on my little brothers by now, I focus instead on the feel of her soft skin under my hands, her scent of cinnamon and chocolate.
Why didn’t I remember she smells so sweet? Funny how you can convince your mind to forget or not notice certain things… I realize I haven’t been so close to her, haven’t touched her bare skin since I broke up with her. I’m caught between protectiveness and arousal so intense I have to shift to accommodate my hardening dick.
Can’t remember the last time I had some release, the last time I was with a chick. Probably before Dad left, more than a year ago—although I had a few encounters with my right hand since then.
Doesn’t help that she’s so damn pretty, so sexy, sitting there in her short dress, and I’m sitting at her feet, looking up her shapely legs.
Dammit. I slide my hand up to her ankle. Why haven’t I been with anyone for so long? It’s not a lack of willing chicks. I just can’t seem to get interested in them. I tried over the years. Hard to be with someone when every time you look at them you see a set of wide blue eyes and a bow-shaped mouth. Tessa’s mouth, her eyes, her face.
Shit, no. I pull back my hand as if her skin burns. I need to get out of here before I lose control. I’ve kept the reins on myself tight for so long I think they might snap if I touch her again. Letting her foot down, I slam the lid of the first aid kit closed, lift it onto the coffee table and scramble to my feet.
Too fast. Too damn fast. Shit.
The room darkens around me, and I curse as I feel my knees begin to buckle. Not enough sleep or food, the adrenaline draining fast from my system.
Through the rushing in my ears, I think I hear Tessa call my name, but all my focus is on directing my fall to the sofa, so that I don’t crash to the floor. Hands guide me, and I sag on the soft leather, as everything dims for a long moment.
Hell.
The darkness wavers and recedes. I blink as sight returns—and she’s leaning over me, her delicate face filling my vision.
“Dylan?” Her face is so close to mine I can see a tiny scar through her eyebrow—an old, faded line—and the shades of blue in her eyes. “Are you okay?”
I want to tell her I’m okay, but my throat is so dry it clicks and blocks my voice. As I try again, she pulls away, and it’s all I can do not to reach for her.
“I’ll bring you some water.” She pads away quietly, and I hear the sound of water running. Then she’s back, carrying a tall glass. She sits by my side and puts it in my hands.
Her eyes are concerned, and I want to press a hand to my chest, to make sure my heart doesn’t break out of my chest. It’s thumping hard against my breastbone, and I have to hold the glass in both shaking hands, or it’ll splash all over. I take a sip, and realize I’m parched, so I swallow it all down.
Feeling better, I lower the glass, and she takes it from my hands, putting it on the table. Every movement she makes catches my eye. I can’t look away.