Down and Dirty by Christine Bell Page A

uncomfortable. The bleeding’s slowed a lot, so I don’t think that’s necessary. Let’s bandage it tight and then when you come over tomorrow, we’ll take another look, okay? As long as we keep it clean and covered until it starts to heal, I think it will be fine.” His eyes met her in a frank stare. “You’re going to have a scar, though.”
    She released her death grip on the porcelain. “That’s okay, I have several. Beats having to go to the hospital.”
    “When was your last tetanus shot?”
    “Three years ago. Cut my foot open on a rusty chunk of rudder in Montauk when I was surfing.”
    “That works. They’re good for ten years for this type of thing.” He stood and tossed the dirty Q-tips he’d been using into the trash can and set the antibacterial cream on the sink. “You going to bed soon or what?”
    “As soon you leave. I’m exhausted, and I think the combination of choking and then falling shook me a little. Why?” She eyed him warily, not sure where he was headed but pretty sure she wasn’t going to like it.
    “I want to bandage this in a way that allows you to sleep how you’re used to. Part of the scrape is on your knee and anytime a cut is on a joint, keeping it covered is going to be a pain in the ass.” He scooped up the roll of gauze and tape and held out a hand to her. “Come on. Let’s get you into bed and you can show me how you lie.”
    She stared up at him, a flash of the last time they’d been near a bed together racing through her mind like a Cinemax flick. “Uh, that’s okay. I sleep flat on my back, legs straight.”
    “For real?”
    No. Not for real. But she had no intention of getting in bed with him nearby. She nodded vigorously, ignoring his outstretched hand and pushing herself to her feet with a wince.
    “That’s creepy. Do you fold your hands over your chest like a corpse?”
    “No. But I do sleep in a coffin,” she deadpanned, skirting around him for the door. “We can do the bandage in the living room. I’ll get some scissors.”
    To her relief, he followed without any argument. She made her way gingerly to the kitchen, grabbed some scissors from a drawer, then settled onto the sprawling velvet couch with her leg outstretched. “Do your worst,” she muttered, and pinched her eyes closed.
    “Stop being a drama queen. This part shouldn’t hurt.”
    He couldn’t have been more wrong. It was killing her already, and he hadn’t even touched her yet. Now, without the promise of pain to distract her, the thought of his hands all over her legs sent a shiver through her, and she gritted her teeth to suppress it. It was a no-go and she could feel the goose bumps breaking out on her skin.
    “Want me to turn on the fireplace?” Shane asked. His voice was coming from her feet now, where he was likely kneeling as he’d been in the bathroom. Semi-hysterical laughter bubbled as “while you’re down there” jokes ran through her mind, unfiltered. She didn’t trust her voice to answer him, so she just shook her head, resolutely keeping her eyes closed.
    The whir of the tape and snip of the scissors seemed to echo through the quiet room, and she wished she’d turned on the TV. It felt like forever before he started the actual bandaging, but when he finally did, the reality was far worse than she’d even anticipated. The hand he used to steady her leg while he worked was big, hard, and intimate. And every time she thought he was done, he came back to adjust, add more tape…more touching. She wanted to look down so bad. To see if the calloused pads of his fingertips were absently caressing the soft skin on her inner thigh, or if she was imagining it. Either way, another rush of chills ran over her, and the breath caught in her throat.
    “Cat?”
    Shane’s voice was low and husky…strained. Her eyes snapped open, and she stared into his. The look she found there sent her senses reeling. Stark, unapologetic need. The tension poured off him, and he leaned