Ugly Love Page 18

He uses his other hand to rifle through the first-aid kit. He pulls out a spool of thread and hands it to me. “Do your best.”

“It’s not like I’m sewing on a damn button, Miles.”

“I’m not spending the whole day in an emergency room for a cut. Just do what you can. I’ll be fine.”

I don’t want him to spend the day in an emergency room, either. That means he wouldn’t be here. “If your hand gets infected and you die, I’m denying any part in this.”

“If my hand gets infected and I die, I’d be too dead to blame you.”

“Good point,” I say. I clean his wound again, then take the supplies I’ll need and lay them out on the counter. I can’t get a good angle with how we’re positioned, so I stand up and prop my leg on the edge of the tub. I put his hand on my leg.

I put his hand on my leg.

Oh, hell.

This isn’t gonna work with his arm draped across my leg like this. If I want my hands to remain calm and not shake, I’m going to need to reposition us.

“This won’t work,” I say, turning to face him. I take his hand and rest it on the counter, then stand directly in front of him. The other way worked better, but I can’t have him touching my leg while I do this.

“It’s gonna hurt,” I warn.

He laughs as though he knows pain and to him, this isn’t pain.

I pierce his skin with the needle, and he doesn’t even flinch.

He doesn’t make a sound.

He watches me work quietly. Every now and then, he looks up from my hand and watches my face. We don’t speak, like always.

I try to ignore him. I try to focus on his hand and his wound and how it desperately needs to be closed, but our faces are so close, and I can feel his breath on my cheek every time he exhales. And he begins to exhale a lot.

“You’ll have a scar,” I say in a quiet whisper.

I wonder where the rest of my voice went.

I push the needle in for the fourth time. I know it hurts, but he doesn’t let it show. Every time it pierces his skin, I have to stop myself from wincing for him.

I should be focusing on his injury, but the only thing I can sense is the fact that our knees are touching. The hand of his that I’m not stitching is resting on top of his knee. One of the tips of his fingers is touching my knee.

I have no idea how so much can be going on right now, but all I can focus on is the tip of that finger. It feels as hot against my jeans as a branding iron. Here he is with a serious gash, blood soaking into the towel beneath his hand, my needle piercing his skin, and all I can focus on is that tiny little contact between my knee and his finger.

It makes me wonder what that touch would feel like if there wasn’t a layer of material between us.

Our eyes lock for two seconds, and then I quickly look back down at his hand. He’s not looking at his hand at all now. He stares at me, and I do my best to ignore the way he’s breathing. I can’t tell if his breathing has sped up because of how close I’m standing to him or because I’m hurting him.

Two of the tips of his fingers are touching my knee.

Three.

I inhale again and try to focus on finishing his stitches.

I can’t.

This is deliberate. This touch isn’t an accidental graze. He’s touching me because he wants to be touching me. His fingers trail around my knee, and his hand slips to the back of my leg. He lays his forehead against my shoulder with a sigh, and he squeezes my leg with his hand.

I have no idea how I’m still standing.

“Tate,” he whispers. He says my name painfully, so I pause what I’m doing and wait for him to tell me it hurts. I wait for him to ask me to give him a minute. That’s why he’s touching me, isn’t it? Because I’m hurting him?

He doesn’t speak again, so I finish the last stitch and knot the thread.

“It’s over,” I say, replacing the items on the counter. He doesn’t release me, so I don’t back away from him.

His hand slowly begins to slide up the back of my leg, all the way up my thigh, around to my hip and up to my waist.

Breathe, Tate.

His fingers grip my waist, and he pulls me closer, still with his head pressed against me. My hands find his shoulders, because I have to grab onto something in order to steady myself. Every muscle in my body somehow just forgot how to do its job.

I’m still standing, and he’s still sitting, but I’m positioned between his legs now that he’s pulled me so close. He slowly begins to lift his face from my shoulder, and I have to close my eyes, because he’s making me so nervous I can’t look at him.

I feel him tilt his face up to look at me, but my eyes are still closed. I squeeze them a little tighter. I don’t know why. I don’t know anything right now. I just know Miles.

And right now, I think Miles wants to kiss me.

And right now, I’m pretty damn sure I want to kiss Miles.

His hand slowly trails all the way up my back until he’s touching the back of my neck. I feel like his hand has left marks on every single part of me he’s touched. His fingers are at the base of my neck, and his mouth is no more than half an inch from my jaw. So close I can’t distinguish if it’s his lips or his breaths that are feathering my skin.

I feel like I’m about to die, and there isn’t a damn thing in that first-aid kit that could save me.

He tightens his grip on my neck … and then he kills me.

Or he kisses me. I can’t tell which, since I’m pretty sure they would feel the same. His lips against mine feel like everything. Like living and dying and being reborn, all at the same time.

Good Lord. He’s kissing me.

His tongue is already in my mouth, gently caressing mine, and I don’t even remember how that happened. I’m okay with it, though. I’m okay with this.

He begins to stand, but his mouth remains on mine. He walks me a few feet until the wall behind me replaces the hand that was on the back of my head. Now he’s touching my waist.