Page 18 of Her Broken Biker
He lets me.
That feels bigger than it should.
I fold the cut over the back of the chair like it matters, because somehow I know it does.
Then I reach for his shirt.
My fingers touch warm cotton first. Then the hard plane of his stomach when I lift the fabric. My hands should be clinical. They know how to be clinical. I have changed dressings and cleaned wounds and handled bodies without letting my mind wander anywhere it shouldn’t.
Except this is Ace, and gorgeous feels too small a word for him.
And my hands are sliding his shirt up over ridged muscle and warm skin while he watches me with those green eyes.
My thoughts go straight into a ditch.
He is built like every warning my mother never gave me. Broad chest. Hard stomach. Tattoos over one arm and up onto his shoulder. Scars here and there, pale lines against tanned skin. Rugged. Beautiful in a brutal way. The kind of man women likeme look at from a distance and then remind themselves to be realistic.
I am in blood-stained scrubs. My hair is a disaster. My hips are too wide, my thighs too soft, my body too much in all the places I spent years wishing would shrink.
And I am standing between his knees with my hands on his bare skin, thinking about his mouth.
I have lost my mind.
That is the only explanation.
“You’re thinking hard,” he says.
My eyes snap to his.
“What?”
His mouth curves a little. “Your face gives you away.”
“It does not.”
“It does.”
“I’m thinking about your shoulder.”
“Sure you are.”
I glare at him because it is easier than melting through the floor. “Do you want me to patch you up, or do you want to bleed on your own furniture?”
His smile fades, but the heat in his eyes stays. “Patch me up.”
“Then behave.”
The word slips out before I can stop it.
Ace goes very still.
So do I.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
My heart makes a terrible, embarrassing little leap.
Then he leans back in the chair, giving me room, and says, “Yes, ma’am.”
