I make the first snip with the scissors, and she shivers. I go still.
“Did I hurt you?”
She shakes her head and rasps, “No.”
I keep going, as slow and as steady as I can. I cut a line up the middle of her back, revealing the ridges of her spine inch by inch. As I get higher, the tank stop starts falling away at the sides, revealing smooth golden skin. My breath catches.
Nobody has skin like her.
Another snip, and I wince when I see the edge of a nasty bruise on her side. She really took a beating from the street. It’s no wonder she can barely lift herself out of bed.
I cut high enough to reveal the black band of her bra. I can see the edge of a tattoo made of scripted letters just underneath, but not enough to read what it says. I’ve reached the point where I need to move her hair out of the way. My fingers graze the nape of her neck as I brush it over her shoulder.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
As much as the sight of her standing there in submission while I cut the clothes off her body is doing unspeakable things to me, I know this is a vulnerable position for her. She’s doing this out of necessity, and I want her to feel as comfortable as she can.
“It’s fine,” she says, so low I almost don’t hear her over the sound of the bath.
I make the final cut, and my breath catches as I glance down the length of her back. She really is stunning, even bruised and held together by a sling and splint. Just the back of her neck is enough to make me weak.
“Your, um, bra.” I’m trying so hard to keep it together that I sound like a malfunctioning robot. “Are you—”
“You can cut it too. It’s just some old plain one.”
Fucking hell.
“Right. Uh, where do I...?”
Even in normal circumstances, bras are confusing. During a sensory overload like this, it’s impossible to decipher where I need to cut so it will come off her.
She chuckles for a second, but it doesn’t do anything to loosen the tension in the room. If anything, I just seem to get even more hyperaware of how close she is.
“Cut the straps and then beside the clasp. That’s the little hooky part at the back, in case you weren’t aware.”
That’s the one part of a bra I do understand—sort of.
I do what she says, and the whole thing slips forward, getting caught by the remains of the tank top before it can fall to the floor.
She’s just a few sudden movements away from being half naked.
“Now what?” I ask.
I need a distracting task, and fast.
“Can you help me get the sling off?”
“Yeah, of course.”
She turns around, her good arm clutching the slashed fabric to her chest. I know I’m going to lose it if I look at her, so I focus on the sling. I’m still working on figuring it out when a new realization hits.
“Wait. How are you going to get your pants off?”
“With my not-broken hand?”
I stare at the skin-tight black jeans. They look like they would take some effort to get off with even two fully functioning arms.
“You sure that will work?”
