“You’re welcome.” I let the silence sit until it becomes uncomfortable. “Well, good night.”
“Zeke,” she chokes out. A sob? “I can’t do this alone.” Her admission is sobering. The amount of pride a woman like her has to swallow to say those words is unfathomable.
I walk over, looking down at the broken woman lying in my bed. Tears pool in her eyes that seem almost lifeless. My chest tightens at the sight. “I’ve got money. I’ll pay you.”
“Diem,” I start, but she shakes her head.
“Just until I can get on my feet.”
“Whatever you need,” I cut in, before she says anything else to make her feel worse. Or me. “Tell me what I can do.”
Attempting to sit up, she leans on her elbow, pausing to close her eyes and grit her teeth in pain. Her bottom lip trembles as she holds her breath. After a moment, her chest begins to rise and fall while she struggles to control her breathing. “I’m not sure what I need,” she whispers.
She gazes up at me with dark brown pools of aching need. They plead with me to just help her in whatever way I can. Because right now, she can’t help herself. And although she’s hurting, she’s not desperate enough to ask.
My lips pressed in a thin line, I give her a nod. “I got you.”
I walk to the bathroom, remembering that Carrie insisted she bathe and clean the wound on her back. As I fill the tub, I make a mental list of the things within my power I can do for her. She needs food, clean clothes, plenty of liquids, and something to help the pain—even if it’s NyQuil.
Grabbing some clean towels from the dryer, I rummage through my laundry basket until I find a clean shirt. I return to the room to find her sitting on the side of the bed. “Can you walk?” I ask, knowing good and damn well she can, but testing her to see how far she plans to go. Even though I feel sorry for her, and I’m willing to help her, doesn’t mean I trust one strand of hair on her pretty little head.
“Yeah,” she says softly, standing slowly. I admire the fight in her as she shuffles to the bathroom, using the walls as a crutch. “No bubbles?” She smirks. Well, at least she hasn’t lost her sense of humor.
“I like to save the romantics for women I like.” I give her a playful smile that she returns. “Sit,” I say, pointing to the toilet.
She obeys, and my dick twitches at the thought. Fucking pervert. Kneeling in front of her, I unbutton her top, keeping my eyes on her face as I do. Pushing it from her shoulders, I look down at the sports bra, wondering how in the hell I’m supposed to get that damn thing off without hurting her.
“Cut it,” she tells me, keeping that bruised and cut, yet still beautiful, face impassive.
Pulling my knife from my jeans, I flip it open. She turns her head slightly to the side, appraising me as I place it between her breasts. She doesn’t blink or look the least bit concerned. Either she trusts me not to kill her, or she doesn’t give a shit if I do.
Gripping the material in my hand, I pull it tight and feel the back of my fingers brush against her breasts that I’m sure taste just as delicious as her mouth. Sliding the blade down the material, it cuts easily, and soon it’s splayed open and barely covering her nipples.
“Don’t worry,” she says, the corner of her lips turning up. “I’m not very modest.”
Unsure of how that makes me feel, I give her a cold look. “I figured as much,” I mumble. Ridding her of the bra completely, I focus on her collarbone, refusing to look at the two perfect tits I know are begging for my attention.
Helping her to stand, I turn her around to avoid temptation, and force a shield over my mind, my thoughts, and my cock. I’ve thought about what Diem would look like naked plenty of times, but this isn’t how I want my first experience to be. I’m here to help her, not fuck her. If this were Carrie or Saylor, there would be no lustful thoughts running through my brain. So I pretend she’s my sister. That she belongs to one of my brothers, so I show her and her body the same respect I would show them.
Pushing her shorts to her feet, I grab her hand as she steps out of them and lead her to the bathtub. Keeping a firm grip on her waist, I hold tight to her tiny body until she is seated. “Close your eyes,” I instruct, grabbing a plastic cup and filling it before pouring water over her head.
She sits silent and motionless, allowing me to wash her hair. When I’m finished, I focus on her back, carefully cleaning around the wound. I keep in mind that this is probably a lot harder for her than it is for me. Diem is not the type to be waited on, bathed, or pampered. I’m sure this is a first.