Page 129 of Throwing Shade
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Laurent hoppedup on the counter next to the sink while I grabbed the first aid kit from the cupboard underneath.
Setting the pack on the counter, I had him track my finger with his eyes. “Any dizziness?”
“No. Are we done?” He slid forward to get down, and winced, his lips compressing.
I placed my hand on his chest to keep him from leaving. “Suck it up.”
Laurent looked at my fingers splayed against his chest and his pecs under my palm tightened. “I don’t need you to mother me.”
I unzipped the kit with too much force, catching the fabric in the teeth of the zipper. “It’s my fault that the dybbuk came after you,” I said, yanking on the damn cloth until the zipper slid free. “Just let me do this. Take off your shirt.”
Laurent hesitated, warily eyeing the kit clenched in my hand, but he pulled his shirt off, his biceps flexing. There was a sinuousness to his movement, his chiseled torso a testament to his strength and purpose.
I tore the package of cotton batting open, sending several puffs flying across the room, then turned on the tap, testing the water with a finger. “I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier.”
“Forget it. I don’t want your guilt. Or your pity.” He watched me through heavy-lidded eyes, a slash of intense green clouded with wariness. “Go home, Miriam.”
My jaw tensed. Laurent didn’t use my proper name. I exhaled slowly. “As soon as I’ve seen to these cuts.” Dampening the cotton, I wiped away the blood on his shoulder.
“Thank you,” I said. “For helping me save Jude.”
“I don’t need your gratitude either.”
“Then let me get a look at your jaw,” I snapped, “because if it’s broken we need to wire it, and wouldn’t that be a damn shame not to be able to listen to you anymore.”
He tensed, then slowly exposed his throat.
I fumbled tossing the cotton ball into the trash. In anyone else, his was a gesture of submission. In Laurent, the sweep of his throat to his collarbone felt like a test.
Placing one hand lightly on his stubbled jaw to tip up his head, I cleaned a cut, his pulse thrumming up through the cotton into my fingertips and his eyes never leaving mine.
What counted as a wrong move that he’d react badly to? Being too rough? Being too gentle? Having the gall to take care of him at all?
He widened his legs for me to step in closer, and when I didn’t immediately, his lips curled up into the faintest challenging smirk.
Heart thudding in my throat, I drew near, checking his jawline with feather-light strokes that grew firmer and slower until my palm lay against his scratchy stubble. I jerked away quickly, accidentally whacking him on the nose.
I notched my chin up to compensate for my flaming cheeks. “I’ve made my diagnosis.”
“I’ll live to snicker-snack another day?” he said wryly.
“Much to the relief of Jabberwockies everywhere.”
One hand hovered over his discarded shirt and I was positive he’d reached his limit, but he pulled the handcloth from the towel holder and held it out. “Use this.”
Ducking my head to hide my smile, I warmed the towel up under the water, wringing it out thoroughly before attending to a nasty gash on his left pec.
“Why did that Sinatra song spook you so badly?” he said.
I dabbed at a patch of dried blood with too much force and he winced. I gentled my movements. “It caught me off guard.”
Laurent leaned in, his nose almost brushing mine. “Liar,” he murmured. His French accent rolled through me, making my skin hot and cold in patches.
My belly clenched and I took a shuddery breath. “That song was playing when my parents were murdered.” I braced myself for his pity.
Instead, he caught my hand, moving it and the cloth across his torso to an injury on his abdomen, his muscles tensing as the fabric brushed over them.
