Now wasn’t the time to get lost in that regret, though, so she yanked the canary-yellow toiletry bag from her suitcase and marched back through the connecting door toward Nick’s bathroom. She made it only two steps inside the door before slamming to a stop.
Nick sat on the bed, the full moon’s light coming in through the window the only illumination, but it was enough to give her an indecently good view of him—his hands on his muscular thighs and his feet flat on the floor—watching her. A quick glance confirmed that his head wound wasn’t bleeding anymore and the bump around it had already begun to grow—not enough to make her insist on going to hospital but more than enough to let her know it had to hurt.
Against her better judgment, she let her attention wander from the small bump on his head to the dark stubble on his square jaw to the pale tan of his flat nipples to the defined lines of his stomach. She could look at this man all night long—if only he’d been a different man, and then she’d do a lot more than look. As it was, though, she had a job to do, and tonight that meant patching him up.
“You just happen to carry a first aid kit around with you?” he asked.
“Of course.” She unzipped the bag as she took a step closer, the move bringing her once again between his legs.
“You’d be an excellent Boy Scout.”
“I was an excellent Girl Guide.” She bit back a sympathetic smile at his confused expression, and the wince he made after the move irritated his injury. “It’s the Girl Scouts in America.”
Placing his palms on his knees, he angled his face up at her and closed his eyes. “Okay, do your worst.”
Looking down at him so totally at ease in his own skin sent a thrill through her that went straight to her core. Okay, this was it. She was going to have to find someone to shag on the quiet before she spontaneously combusted from being around this man.
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“You okay there, Lady Lemons?” he asked, his eyes still closed so that his long brown eyelashes rested on his cheekbones.
“Of course.” More than a little frazzled, she reached into her kit, grabbed the one-time-use antibiotic, ripped the top of the foil packet, and froze, realizing her mistake the moment the cherry scent hit her nose.
Nick sniffed, leaning forward as his eyes snapped open. “What is that?”
“Nothing.” Horrified at her mistake, she tried to shove the packet down to the very bottom of her emergency kit, but he snatched it away before she got a chance.
He held up the packet so the moonlight hit it. Her focus zeroed in on the artwork on the packet depicting a pair of cherries covered in lipstick kisses. Kill her now. Please just let the earth’s gravitational pull cease to exist for as long as it took to suck her up into space and the nearest black hole.
For his part, Nick managed not to smirk as he read the product name out loud with precise enunciation. “Wild cherry edible lubrication gel.” He shrugged. “I’m more of a strawberry man myself, but to each his—or her—own.”
She held out her hand, palm up, glad to see that it didn’t shake—or at least not much. “May I have it back, please?”
Now he did smirk, a slow, sexy, I-like-the-way-you-think curl of one side of his mouth that made her breath catch. “What else do you have in that kit?”
Band-Aids. Burn cream. A three-pack of condoms. The usual. “None of your business.”
“Have it your way, Lady Lemons.” He laid the foil rectangle in the center of the palm of her hand, setting off a riot of sensations that pulled her whole body tight.
Determined to brazen through this awkward moment, she folded the top of the packet over and dropped the lube into the bag—she’d dispose of it later—then she yanked out a one-time-use rectangle of foil, read the label three times to be sure she had the antibiotic this time, and tore it open. “Tilt your head back and I’ll put this on your cut. It might sting.”
“I don’t mind a little of that as long as it’s all better after.”
She just bet he did. “Are you going to cooperate, or do I have to insist on taking you to hospital?”
“I’ll be good, right up until you don’t want me to be anymore.”
Ignoring that last bit and her body’s yes-please reaction to it, she dabbed the milky gel onto his cut. His jaw squared, but he didn’t make a sound. Next, she got out the bandage, adjusted her stance to get a better look so she could line up the cushion so none of the sticky bits ended up on his cut, and centered it over his wound. He let out a short, low groan that brushed against her chest, reminding her of their positions right now—him on the bed in only his boxer briefs and her in the same soft cotton tank top and shorts sleep set that had been thinned from going through the wash more times than she could count. Desire, warm and smooth, curled in her stomach.
“Almost all fixed up.” Damn, her voice sounded breathy as she pressed the bandage to his forehead.
When he didn’t say anything, she dropped her gaze lower. He wasn’t looking at her, though—well, not at her face. Her hard nipples pressing against the thin material of her tank top were directly at eye level. She could blame it on the cold because her body was hot, overheated even—and it had nothing to do with the temperature.
A sigh sounded in her ears, soft and needy. It took her a second to realize the sound had come from her. His hands fisted on his knees—knuckles white, he glanced up at her, his eyes dark with a possessive lust that made her core clench.
“Please tell me you don’t want me to be good anymore,” he said, his low rumble as good as a touch against her aching breasts.
“We shouldn’t.” And if she kept reminding herself of that, then she’d remember it.