Total pages in book: 169
Estimated words: 162138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 811(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 540(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 811(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 540(@300wpm)
“You bathed me?”
Her lips twitch. “Yep.”
Fuck. She bathed me and I don’t even remember? “I’m probably going to need a lot of help bathing for the next couple of days.”
“Really?” She laughs, and her lips pull into one of those incredible smiles of hers.
“Really.” I yank my hand from hers, the bandage hanging off as I cup her face and kiss her. “Thank you.”
She blinks, her brows rising with my words, and I wonder if she thinks I’m an ungrateful fuck. I’ve thanked her in the past. . .right? Damn, maybe I haven’t. I should probably start doing that every day she’s with me.
“You don’t have to thank me,” she says. “I should be the one thanking you.”
The grip in my chest loosens and I smile at her. “You never have to thank me for protecting you. That’s my job.”
“Your job?” Her lips quirk as she goes back to the bandage on my right hand. “What’s the job title exactly?”
“Husband.”
At this, she smiles — my smile — and meets my eyes. Fuck. How the hell did I get this lucky?
“Husband,” she repeats, still smiling as she starts cleaning my knuckles with antiseptic wipes. “What else is in this job description? Definitely laundry.”
I laugh. “Laundry, sometimes cooking even though I’ll need recipes, taking out the trash, pumping gas in your car. . .”
“I can pump my own gas.” She laughs, shaking her head.
“I know you can, but from now on, I’m going to.”
Her eyes flick to mine and she sets my hand down gently on her lap. “What else?” she asks, genuinely intrigued now.
“Orgasms.”
She smiles wide again. “I guess you’re hired.”
“You want me to try out for the position?” I ask, feeling my body heat instantly.
She bites the side of her lip, her eyes burning as she looks at me, but she shakes her head. “I need to finish up here.”
“It’s a standing offer,” I say, and her eyes darken even more.
How the hell does she expect me to sit in bed with her and not fuck her? It’s an impossibility. I try to think back, but can’t pinpoint the exact moment I started feeling this way. It doesn’t matter. The feeling’s here to stay and I don’t think I can sit here and not fuck her. I try to distract myself by looking at her hands, but her ring catches my attention and I want to fuck her all over again. Jesus. I stare at the oversized Fairview Blaze sweatshirt she’s wearing, but now I want to know whether or not she’s naked underneath it. I exhale heavily and look toward the bathroom.
“What’s wrong?” Her hands stop moving.
“I’m trying to distract myself so I don’t fuck you in the middle of this.”
She laughs loudly, throwing her head back, and I feel myself grin and laugh along a little.
“Just focus on what I’m doing,” she says. “Or turn on the television.”
“Nope. I’m focused. I’m focused.” I round my shoulders and take a breath. She looks at me, amusement lighting her eyes as she shakes her head. I look at her hands again as she rolls on the bandages. “Did they teach you how to do this in medical school?”
“Can you believe they didn’t?”
“What the hell?” I ask. “And you’re a doctor?”
“Not yet.” She looks up at me. “I’m prepared for my residency program, where I’ll learn essential things.”
“What about drawing blood?”
“I can do that.”
“What about IVs?”
“I can also do that.” She glances up at me. “I’ve been wrapping my wrists and ankles since I was thirteen.”
“Oh? You were out in the field, fighting people?”
She laughs. “Sometimes, I fell and caught myself wrong or punched the pitch a little too hard after a loss, and my ankles. . .well, that’s obvious.”
“You punched ‘the pitch’ when you lost a game?” I hiss, jerking my hand away from her when she wipes a nasty cut I have on my left middle knuckle.
“No, we won the games.” She meets my eyes again and pulls my hand back. “It was usually when I missed a penalty kick.”
“You got mad enough to punch the field because you missed a penalty kick?”
“The pitch,” she says, sounding annoyed. I bite back a laugh. “And yes, penalty kicks are freaking easy. I shouldn’t have missed those.”
I stare at the top of her head for a moment, while she looks down and wraps new bandages around my left hand. I don’t care what she says, she’s meant to be on the field — pitch, whatever the fuck it’s called.
“You’re too competitive not to play,” I say.
“I’m not going to play, but if I did, if I decided to try out for the pro team,” she starts, “We’d never see each other.”
“Of course, we would.”
Her head snaps up and she stares at me. “You’re getting back on the ice before the next season starts.”