Turned out I didn’t want to see him after all. It was too soon. Or too long. Too something, and I wasn’t ready in any sort of way.
“That’s better.” He patted the cut with the washcloth. “It’s barely bleeding now. I found some bandages and an ointment you had in the cupboard. Looks like it’s antibiotic.”
Before I could comment on that, he produced a bottle of peroxide and liberally poured it into the cut.
I yelped and drew back. “Holy shitballs. You trying to kill me?”
“You need to disinfect the wound.” The mildness of his tone made me want to punch him.
I didn’t really get where the violence was coming from, as all and all, I was a rather even-tempered woman. But right now, I wanted to slug him in his fat, gorgeous head.
“Your hair’s messed up. Did you forget to comb it tonight or something?” The snark was all new too. Toward him, anyway. He wasn’t my usual target.
He ignored me and kept dabbing the washcloth over my cut.
“Or did some girl run her hands through it when you kissed her?”
Because you damn sure never kissed me.
A first, that. Having sex with a guy three times without getting one single kiss—on the mouth, or anywhere else.
Not that I was bitter or anything. Nope. It was just a fact that needed mentioning.
“How does your finger feel?” It was as if I’d never spoken. “Can you bend it?”
“It’s not broken.”
“Flex it a little, see if it starts bleeding again.”
It did, but just a little. He dabbed it with the washcloth again, put on the ointment, then dressed it with a bandage like an old pro. “There. All fixed now. Be careful with the knife next time.” He rose, started to walk out.
“That’s it?” I popped to my feet and only swayed slightly. Progress. “You’re just leaving?”
He stopped, but he didn’t glance back. “I’m not leaving. I’m here for dinner.”
“I meant the room. You’re just going to walk out there like we didn’t…” I trailed off as my voice wobbled and his shoulders went stiff.
“Are you okay?”
When I didn’t reply, he shifted toward me, his face cast in the moonlight coming through the slats of the blinds. “When you didn’t return my call, I thought that meant you wished for no contact.”
“No contact?” Hearing how shrill my voice had become—and remembering the closed bedroom door didn’t offer much privacy from the rest of the apartment—I dialed it back. “I didn’t contact you, because you told me to call if I needed help. I don’t need help, Gio. But maybe I needed you.”
Once the hateful, embarrassing words were out, I pushed past him and fumbled with the doorknob. But the bandage made me clumsy, and I couldn’t get it open fast enough.
His hand came down above my head, holding the door closed. For a moment, he didn’t speak, and I stared at the peeling cream paint on the wood, trying not to react to his heavy, hard body pressing against me.
“Need me for what, tesoro?” he murmured against my hair.
Goddamn him, I trembled. Like a fucking ring card girl who’d been granted a smile from her favorite fighter.
Like a foolish chick who was cruising for a bruising.
Or maybe a…pounding.
“I don’t know. Maybe a conversation? Would that be too much to ask for?”
“No, it wouldn’t be, if you didn’t fuck me with your eyes every time we speak.” He trailed a finger along my curls. “Now that I’ve been inside you, that’s not fair.”