She sets a blood pressure cuff on the bed beside me. Then her cool hand touches my bicep to shove up the sleeve of my jersey. A nurse had toweled off some of the mud earlier, but I remain wet and uncomfortable in my kit.
A chill ripples over me from her delicate touch. It could be from the fact that I’m soaked head to foot in muddy rainwater. Or it could be that this bird is affecting me more than I care to admit. I choose the former.
When her eyes zero in on the half sleeve of black ink that covers the area from my elbow up to my shoulder, I wish I could crawl into her head to know what she’s thinking. Is she as intrigued by me as I am by her? Does she want me? Do I make her nervous? Have I ever cared what a girl thought of me before?
I begin to notice the throbbing in my knee once again, so I willfully focus on the female before me. Her nose is small and points slightly upward, and I have a hard time not staring at her pouty lips that seem too heavy to stay closed.
Christ, she’s gorgeous.
She wraps the cuff around my arm and, biting her lip, she turns away to push some buttons on the machine. I take this opportunity to check out her backside. It’s difficult to tell, but I think she might be sporting a seriously sexy arse.
When the cuff begins to automatically tighten, her focus shifts and she catches my lowered gaze on her. Quirking a brow, she steps over to me and grabs my opposite wrist. “Feeling better already?” she inquires while staring at her wristwatch to register my pulse.
My brows arch. “I buggered up my knee. Not my eyes.”
This conversation forces my mind back to the real issue at hand. I glare down at my knee, hot anger coursing through my veins at the seemingly normal-looking limb. On the outside, it looks perfect. On the inside, it’s a stormy mess. Not dissimilar to how my entire body looks and feels.
I was born for football, bred for football, lived for football. Now the only feeling I have inside of me is utter treachery. My body betrayed me today.
A hand reaches out and touches my shoulder, causing me to jump at the touch. My gaze lifts to the redhead, and I watch her expression waver as she takes in my internal brooding. Her features are soft. Sweet. And even more beautiful.
Her brows pull together in a sympathetic way again. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I know you’re going through a lot.”
I stare back in utter confusion over how she seems to be reading me so easily. Am I that transparent? My shock over her assessment of me is halted when I catch the first clear shot of her eyes through those big glasses. Her irises are a warm toffee colour—dark and bold with flecks of honey around the edges. They are a sharp almond shape with long, soft lashes fanning out. They look softly into mine with a sense of calmness that I feel everywhere.
Everywhere.
And for the first time in my entire life with a woman, I’m at a loss for words.
Realising I’m in some weird silent trance, I clear my throat and croak out, “Most women like my eyes on them.” It takes more effort than I’m used to, so I shoot her a lascivious Camden Harris knicker-dropping smirk.
Her eyes squint thoughtfully before she says, “Your vitals are good.” Her tone is back to all business. “But I need to check you for internal injuries before I can take you up to radiology.”
My brows lift. Could she possibly be immune to my charms? Redheads, I think.
She lowers the back of my bed. Suddenly, my mind yanks from the moment as the sensation in my knee of bone rubbing on bone sends shivers up my spine.
She glances down to my legs. “Are you experiencing a lot of pain?”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” I reply, attempting to avoid the faint feeling of nausea casting over me. She’s too beautiful to be looking at me like I’m some weak patient. I want her to look at me like I’m Camden Harris, a star striker for Bethnal Green F.C.
“Well of course you can handle your pain,” she says, her tone laced with annoyance. “Humans can handle a lot of pain when forced to. But since we are inside a Western medicine-practicing hospital, I need you to be more specific. On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst, how bad is it?”
“Three.” Bugger, I’m a liar. My knee throbs! Why do we have to keep talking about it? I don’t notice it when we’re not talking about it and you’re looking at me with those sexy, fuck-me-sideways eyes.
She stops what she’s doing and stares at me incredulously. Her hands reach up and grip the stethoscope around her neck. “You likely tore something in your knee, and you’re telling me your pain is only at a three?”
“I’m a Harris. We’re tougher than most.” I wink at her while clenching my teeth.
She responds with a dramatic eye roll that makes me genuinely smile. Fuck, she’s cute. I can tell I’m affecting her but not in the way I affect most women, which only makes me even more curious.
“Lying about your pain number doesn’t make your dick any bigger,” she mumbles under her breath. Her eyes fly wide when I let out a hearty bark of a laugh. It’s like she didn’t mean to say those words out loud. She covers her mouth and an honest-to-goodness hoot rumbles all the way into my stomach.
Even if what she said was accidental, it was challenging and funny. An intriguing combo in a female, I have to admit. The birds I run into usually reply to my practised lines with a giggle and a selfie. I never knew injuring myself could be this much fun.
“Believe me, I don’t need any help with my cock size.” I quirk a brow at her.
She barks out her own incredulous laugh this time and that colour appears on the apples of her cheeks again. The same colour that was staining her face when I was checking out her arse a minute ago.
Her smile makes me smile.
Our eyes lock, and I watch the corners of her mouth drop as her chest rises and falls with deep, labourious breaths.
Camden Harris knicker-dropping smirk.
Evidently deciding not to acknowledge my dick size comment, she says, “We’ll get you some pain meds after your scan.” She pauses for a beat, her hands flittering over my white jersey like she’s not sure where to grab it since it’s covered in mud. I help her by grabbing the hem and lifting it up past my pecs. I swear the colour of her eyes turns to lava. She can act all calm and collected, but this reaction is unmistakable.
Rolling her incredibly large pink lips into her mouth, she presses them between her teeth as she places her hands on my mud-streaked stomach. I suck in a sharp breath.
“Sorry,” she croaks, her face twisting up apologetically. “My hands are always cold.”
“It’s okay,” I groan softly against the onslaught. I’m quite certain I’d take loads more pleasure pain from her any day. “I’m always hot. Oil and water can be kind of fun to mix sometimes.”
She closes her eyes for a second, forcing herself to concentrate as she moves her soft, delicate hands along the bumpy planes of my stomach. Watching her, I endeavour to think that she’s a good doctor. She has a skillful touch, and the way her eyes open and inspect as she goes along makes me assume she’s got eighty different facts spinning in her mind as she works.
She’s obviously very focused because she’s completely oblivious to my eyes trained on her, which is…problematic for me because I’m getting half hard from having her hands on me. And problematic because I’m wearing a nut cup that won’t allow my erection the room it needs to stretch out.