Page 32 of The Second Dance
Using my wrists, I manage to get the door open.
This woman.
Is she deliberately torturing me?
I glance down at her outfit, instantly thinking about all the wrong things.
She’s got on a clingy black turtleneck. A short corduroy skirt.
And thick, black stockings that cut off mid-thigh.
At least she’s wearing boots, but who the fuck dresses like this?
She looks like she’s getting ready to walk into a beat poetry festival, not visiting a farmer out in the sticks.
Andy’s gaze starts at my face, but quickly drops to my hands. “Oh! You’re bleeding.”
“Yes. It would seem so.”
She shoulders her little messenger bag, stepping closer. “What happened?”
“I smashed it.”
She peers at my hand, then up at me. “Do you need stitches?”
I could laugh at the contrast between my dad’s response and hers. But my damn hand hurts too much. “No. I just need to get it cleaned up.”
Gesturing with my chin, I lead her back into the house. She finds the blood-smeared first aid kit and looks back at me with a skeptical look. “No stitches, huh?”
“It’s really not that deep.”
“Sit.”
I follow her command, doing my best to hide the fact that it makes me kind of happy to be fussed over.
She carries the kit over to the island and leans over my hand. I’m sitting sideways on the stool, legs akimbo. She gets some towels wet and when she returns; she steps between my legs. Her thigh brushes mine and I suck in a little breath.
She freezes over my hand, wincing. “Sorry, sorry.”
I smile, exasperated. “It’s fine.”
It has nothing to do with my hand and everything to do with the fact that her hip is inches from my cock.
Up close, my fingers are itching to trace along the inch of skin between her stockings and skirt.
Maybe she doesn’t realize the effect she’s having on me. It’s all I can do to keep my breathing even, but the scent of that shampoo is filling my head and I just want to lean in.
Once she’s cleaned the blood away, she tilts my hand this way and that. “You’re probably going to lose that fingernail.”
“You might be right.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Maybe you ought to be more careful.”
I nudge her with my leg. “You might be right about that, too.”
She’s got a ghost of a smile on her lips and it’s a balm on my soul.
She’s not mad.
