Her eyes narrowed. “Do you ever turn off being a football player?”
I chuckled, handing her the other bottle. “You don’t have to worry. I haven’t had one of those pain pills in days. I don’t like the stuff. I don’t like how they make me feel.”
She looked doubtful. “But how is your hand feeling? Let me take a look at it.”
Before I could protest, she had the sling off my shoulder and was examining my fingers. She leaned closely to my wrist and I could feel the warmth of her breath rolling over my skin. It was instinct as my left hand twirled a strand of her hair between my fingers.
She looked up. “I think we need to get you back in for an earlier appointment.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You haven’t been taking care of this like you should, Wes. Your hand is still swollen. I’m going to get ice.” She pushed off the couch and headed for the freezer, where she began to put together a makeshift icepack.
“I wouldn’t usually recommend ice this late after surgery, but you need it.” She touched the ice—wrapped in a towel—to my hand as I winced. “It still hurts, doesn’t it?”
“That means it’s healing, right?” I searched her eyes for false hope. I needed these bones healed yesterday.
“Not necessarily.” She reattached the sling across my shoulder and cupped the ice on my wrist. “Twenty minutes of ice and then we’ll give you a break. No arguing.” She eyed me.
“Yes, ma’am.” I grinned, reaching for the beer.
“I feel bad about this, Wes.”
“Why would you say that?”
She wouldn’t look at me. “Because of last night. We probably reinjured your hand. I-I wasn’t thinking about what we were doing.”
I almost spit out my beer. “You think you hurt my hand? Believe me, I wasn’t feeling any pain.” I grinned.
“I’m being serious. It was wrong on a lot of levels. I should have been more careful about your injury.”
“Hey, you didn’t hurt my hand.” I wanted to kiss the sad look off her face. “Your kind of house call was what every patient needs.”
“Well, it’s not happening again.” She folded her arms across her chest. “This shows me how reckless it was. Having sex with a post-surgery patient was irresponsible of me.”
“Not happening again? You sure about that?” She had thrown a challenge flag, whether she knew it or not. And Wes Blakefield never backed down from a challenge.
“I’m completely sure.” Her lips thinned into a straight line.
I looked at the screen and then at Lennon. “It’s halftime, and I’m feeling like I need the kind of medicine only you can give me.”
She scooted away from me on the couch. “Well, you’re not getting it.”
“Oh, I think I am.” I snagged the top of the boxers she was
wearing and slid them over her hips. They were loose on her thin body and easy to discard.
“What are you doing?”
“Medicine,” I growled against her stomach.
She squirmed under me. “This can’t…” I kissed her navel and sucked along her hipbone.
I moved back on my heels and looked down at her. “Pull that jersey up just over your tits.”
Her fingers tucked underneath the fabric and she dragged the hem over her breasts, rubbing her erect nipples as it grazed over them. I pulled the boxers off her ankles. Her chest heaved, and her eyes glazed over with lust.
“Now I want you to make yourself come.”