Scythe & Sparrow (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #3)(47)
“Does that help?” Fionn asks, and when I don’t say anything, he glances up at me. I give a faint nod. But I think it’s a lie. I don’t think it helps at all. I think it makes everything worse. If he realizes that my gesture is untruthful, he doesn’t say. He just watches, taking in the details of my face. His eyes have turned black, the pupils blown. As though he can’t keep his gaze on me any longer, he turns away and blows again beneath my cast. “I know it’s not as effective as my crochet hook,” he says as he shoots me a chastising smile over his shoulder, “but it’s the safest way.”
I don’t want to tell him that he’s making it worse. Or that it’s making other things worse.
My core clenches. I try not to squirm in my seat. But I can’t help it, not when Fionn’s thumb absentmindedly coasts over the tender flesh of my knee as he blows another steam of air beneath my cast. My thigh tenses, and I shift my hips, moving slowly in the hope that he won’t notice, because I don’t want him to stop. Even if it makes me nearly mindless with the need for more. Even though I’m just a patient or a friend in his eyes. Even if I know it’s only going to hurt more when he lets go.
He blows into my cast. Again. And again. And again. I shift my hips and brace my hands on the seat of the couch, but don’t even realize I’m doing it. My flesh is on fire. My center throbs, screaming at me in a demand for more than I’m able to give. I should put a stop to this. But I can’t seem to form a single word, not when Fionn’s hand is warm on my leg. Not when his breath stirs every sensation in my skin.
Fionn turns to face me, my ankle and knee still in his grasp. His eyes drop from mine, and I feel the caress of his gaze on the side of my neck, then on my chest. I realize only now that it’s heaving with rapid breaths, as though I’ve just run a race. I swallow and his attention returns to my throat before lifting to my parted lips.
His voice is low. Quiet. There’s maybe even an accusation in it when he asks, “Are you okay?”
Every time I want to bury myself deeper in that same cocoon that seems to smother me, he tears through it. When I want to lie, I find that I can’t. The best I can seem to do is to leave out the truth. But this time, it feels like there is nowhere to run. Not with the way he watches every nuance of my body. I’ve already given away more than I could ever hide.
“No,” I whisper as I shake my head. “Not really.”
He doesn’t look surprised by my answer. And if it’s a reply he doesn’t want to receive, he doesn’t let on about that either. Nothing in his expression has changed. He still holds my leg as though he might simply turn back to his task and breathe this torture across my skin. “Is it not helping?” he asks.
“No. It’s not.”
He nods, as though this is the answer he expected. “What would?”
I could say the crochet hook. Or cutting the cast off. Or enough alcohol to knock me unconscious. I look down at his hand on my thigh, then back to his eyes. “Not that,” is all I can muster.
Fionn’s eyes are lightless. I feel as though I’m ensnared by them. Like there’s no way I can free myself. And the way he looks at me? It’s as though I’m exactly where he wants me—pinned by his unflinching stare. “What would help, Rose?” he finally asks.
We watch each other. The connection between us never breaks. Not as I lift my hand from where it’s gripped to the edge of the couch. Not as I slide my fingertips down my short skirt, not as they trace my thigh. Not as I lay my hand on Fionn’s. At first, I think nothing about him has changed. But then I see it, the quickening pulse in the artery that lines his neck, the subtle tightening of the corded muscles of his shoulders.
He could stop me. But he doesn’t.
I wrap my fingers around the edge of his hand. I don’t take my eyes from Fionn’s as I slide his palm up my thigh, inch by agonizing inch. The world around us falls away. The only thing I see is him as I guide his touch across my flesh.
His attention doesn’t stray from my face, not as my motion pushes up the hem of my skirt and our hands climb higher. Not when I slide his fingertips over the lace edge of my panties. Not even when I move at an excruciatingly slow pace to draw his hand down to my center, where the fabric is warm and damp. Only then do I stop, my hand pressed over Fionn’s, my clit throbbing with need beneath his touch.
He still doesn’t look down. I don’t know what will happen when I lift my palm away. Maybe he’ll stop. Tell me how this is a terrible idea. He’s my doctor. He’s invited me into his house out of the kindness of his heart. He’s tried to help me, but this isn’t what he had in mind. I fully expect that response.
But that’s not what happens.
Fionn’s gaze doesn’t break from mine, his touch still on my pussy. With his right hand, he slowly lifts my ankle, pushing my leg into the air so he can duck beneath it. He lowers my leg to rest my cast over his shoulder.
“I … I can’t offer you a relationship, Rose,” he warns.
Something about his words stings deep in a hidden cavern of my heart. But why should it? It’s not as though I could stay, even if I wanted to. Not with Matt lurking around. He’s clearly a little too interested in my presence here. It’s not safe for Fionn if I linger. And I definitely do not want to stay, no matter how much I romanticize moments in this small-town life. This is just a crush, that’s all. On a doctor. All smart and kind and sexy. On a town. It’s cute, with the welcoming people and the rowdy fight club and the knitting grannies who take no shit. But my home is on the road. In an RV. In a big top tent. Flying through a metal cage. A person like me doesn’t pick a relationship over that kind of life. And a person like Fionn doesn’t choose a relationship with someone like me.