Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
I wasn’t exactly a modest woman.
If he saw my tits during this process, so be it.
But there was a strange gooey sensation in my chest as he came back into the bathroom, then carefully slid one of my arms in, and pulled the shirt around me, before slipping in my other arm. Then, finally, he reached around, making sure the sides were settled between my breasts, so nothing was showing.
I could have sworn that before he turned me, his lips pressed into my hair. But, honestly, I had no fucking idea. My entire skull felt like it was throbbing at that point. I was probably just imagining things.
Dav moved in front of me, grabbing the zip, and slipping it up, careful not to brush my skin.
The weird thing was, some part of me was… I don’t know… disappointed.
Which made no fucking sense, since I’d never had any interest in Dav that way. I couldn’t. We were colleagues. And shit was hard enough for a woman in this job. You couldn’t have it getting around that you fucked coworkers. Any respect you sweated and bled for would fly right out the window.
“Hey, Cinna?” he asked, voice uncharacteristically serious as his gaze cut up to mine.
Even with only half of my vision working, I had to admit that he was a pretty place to rest your eyes for a minute or two.
Dav was a little bit too fair to be fully Italian like most of us. His hair was solidly in the brown category, but it was streaked with enough golden strands to make him seem more fair-haired. And his light blue eyes with their thick lashes were undeniably attractive.
And don’t think I didn’t notice the rest of him.
The low-slung pajama pants left very little to the imagination, his broad chest, six-pack, and Adonis belt on full display.
But where I usually found mischief in his eyes as he looked at me, or even, at times, desire, there was something darker there now.
“What?” I asked when he didn’t say anything else.
“Your waistband is rolled,” he said, the implication hanging in the air like a fog we were both struggling to breathe in.
My gaze slid away, surprising myself with my own embarrassment. Even though nothing that happened was because of anything I’d done.
“No,” I said. “If I didn’t grab a bottle neck and strike out, though,” I admitted, taking a deep breath that sliced up my ribs and burned my lungs like something noxious.
“How about I peel the pants off?” he suggested. “Can’t imagine getting the leather off with that busted hand is gonna feel good.”
“Okay,” I agreed, too tired to try to find my pride, to insist I could do it myself.
He was offering.
I was going to let him.
Reaching up under the black and gray zip-up hoodie he gave me, he reached for my button, and this time, his fingers brushed against my skin.
I didn’t anticipate the little sizzle of interest. Not at a time like this. Or, let’s face it, not at all with Dav.
I was just overwrought.
In agony.
Exhausted.
It meant nothing.
Not even as the sensation intensified as he grabbed handfuls of my waistband, carefully avoiding my panties, and started to tug the material down my hips. My thighs. The oddly sensitive sides of my knees.
“I need to check your feet too,” he said as if just realizing I was practically barefoot in my shredded socks.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “I think there’s glass,” I admitted, voice sounding thick with the effort it was taking to keep me upright and conscious.
Dav made a noise in his throat but said nothing as he pressed me back to the toilet then pulled off my pants, squatting down to reach for my thin socks, wincing as he pulled them off. Like my pain was his own.
“Christ, baby,” he said as he settled my ankle on his leg, inspecting my foot. “How the fuck were you standing on these?” he asked as he reached toward the counter for his kit, digging around blindly until he found the tweezers.
“Wasn’t much of a choice,” I said, watching the top of his head as he went to work on my feet.
I was sure there was pain.
But that thing they said about not being able to feel multiple pains at once proved true right then. And my brain was struggling to decide if the pain in my wrist, ribs, head, or face were the one to focus on. It didn’t even clock the sensation of glass being plucked out of my feet.
He worked on one foot. Then the other. Before rushing off to grab a flashlight and double-checking his work.
The next thing I knew, my feet were being plunged into warm, soapy water in a small basin that appeared out of nowhere, making me wonder if maybe I was slipping in and out of consciousness as I sat there.