“Stand up,” I encourage and he complies. “Damn,” I hiss when I get a better look at his side. “This is a mess.”
He twists, trying to see the wound. “I pulled a big chunk of wood out of it.”
“Yeesh.” I work on unbuttoning his pants and he lifts an eyebrow. “Don’t get cocky,” I warn.
“I’m always cocky.”
“Don’t I know it.” I work his zipper and wince as I push his pants down. “I’m not into blood play. I just need your clothes out of my way.”
“Whatever you say, Sunshine.”
The inappropriate jokes are better than his dark silence and listless answers. They give me hope he’ll be okay. I reach up and press a quick kiss to his lips. “Let me clean this and then you can be as cocky as you want.”
“Mmm.” He lets out an interested growl and tugs at the collar of my T-shirt. “Take this off.”
“This isn’t one of the club’s naughty nurse pornos, buddy.”
He barks out a laugh, then winces, glancing at his side. “Has Downstate made a nurse porno?”
“How would I know? Probably,” I mutter, searching through the medicine cabinet. I finally find what I want and twist the taps, scrubbing my hands clean. “What did this?” I gesture to his torn flesh.
He twists again, the movement drawing attention to his inked skin rippling over firm muscles.
Not the time.
“A chunk of door.” He rubs his fingertips together. “Like one of those cheap particle board doors. Maybe a pellet from a shotgun. I pulled a piece about this big out.” He holds his thumb and index finger about three inches apart.
“Great. Who knows how filthy it was or if there are little splinters in there. It just had to find that small, unprotected section between your vest and pants.” I dry my hands and lay out each item I plan to use—gauze, peroxide, a bottle of liquid that says “wound care wash” and tweezers. “Let’s clean you in the shower first.”
He lifts an eyebrow and hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his boxer briefs, teasingly lowering and raising the material.
“Yes, yes, you’re incredibly sexy and I can’t wait to jump you.” I twirl two fingers in the air. “Now, hurry up.”
He points to my chest. “Seeing your tits would really speed up the healing process.”
I smother my smile—shouldn’t encourage his behavior—and strip off my T-shirt. “Better?”
He stares at my bra like he’s trying to burn it off my body with the power of his mind. “No.”
“Get in the shower.” I wave an exasperated hand in the air and bite my lip to hold in my laughter.
He steps in but leaves the door open. “I need your help.”
I strip off the rest of my clothes, grab one of the bottles from the sink, and join him. “Better?”
He cups my breasts. “Much.”
“Jesus.” I flick open the cap of the small bottle. “Stand under the spray for a minute.”
We switch places. He hisses through clenched teeth as the hot water slices over his skin. “Fuuuuck, that stings.”
“This probably won’t feel much better. Want a washcloth to bite on?” I ask, handing him a square of terrycloth.
“No, smart-ass.” He tips his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Just do it.”
Wincing, because I can’t stand causing him a second of pain even if it’s to help him, I squirt some of the wound wash liquid on the torn skin. He’s silent. Doesn’t move a muscle as I take the washcloth and start rubbing at all the dirt and caked blood.
Finally, I can see the extent of his angry red, damaged flesh. “It’s so jagged, I don’t know if stitches will help. But we’ll let the doctor figure that one out.” I probe the area and my finger brushes against something sharp. “Hold on.”