“I didn’t say that,” I answer quietly, still not moving. Because right now, with her soft curves pressed into me, I do want her here.
And unfortunately, my dick chooses this moment to agree with me.
It hardens against her and her eyes widen.
“I see,” she murmurs.
I rotate away, straightening up and leaning on my crutches once again.
“Sorry about that,” I tell her. “I hope I didn’t crush you.”
With my hard-on.
Her mouth twitches. “No worries. Let’s get you back out to your chair and I’ll bring you your pills.”
I don’t argue, I simply turn and begin the slow hobble to my chair.
Nora follows at my elbow, and as I’m twisting to drop into the chair, she gasps.
“Holy shit, Brand,” she breathes. “Your leg.”
I glance down and find a large spot of blood spreading on my inner thigh.
Fuck. I must’ve jostled the sutures in the kitchen.
Without another word, Nora bends over me, yanking the elastic band of my shorts down. I lift my hips to let the shorts slide down, and Nora’s cool fingertips find my inner thigh.
I grit my teeth.
Not because of pain, because there isn’t any. But because Nora’s fingers are literally a couple of inches away from my dick.
Cold fish. Cold fish. Cold fish.
Cold.
Fucking.
Fish.
“You broke open your wound,” she says needlessly, her voice panicked. She pulls at the blood-soaked bandage, examining the injury. She covers it with the gauze again, pressing her fingers firmly to it for a long moment before looking at it again.
“Okay. I think it’s fine. It was just a little tear, and it stopped bleeding.” She looks up at me, her face calmer now. “But you’ve got to be more careful, especially these first few days. If you need something, call me. Don’t try to get it yourself.”
I nod curtly, but I’d probably agree with anything right about now. Her fingers are pressed to my groin again and she’s kneeling in front of me. My thoughts aren’t on my fucking injury.
In fact, my thoughts are far from my fucking injury, but thankfully, I’m saved by someone clearing their throat in the doorway.
Nora and I both turn at the same time.
My mother stands there, her face disapproving, her shoulders stiff.
“Am I interrupting?” she asks icily.
I stare at her hard, because I haven’t seen her in nine years, because no one invited her here, and because she didn’t even bother to knock.
Bethany Killien is smaller, frailer and grayer than she was nine years ago.
Her thin arms stay at her sides. She doesn’t approach me, she doesn’t reach for me, she simply stands there, limp and quiet. Her face is tired, her hair pulled into a bun at her neck. She looks like someone who has lived a thousand lives.