On My Knees - J. Kenner Page 0,17

the door open.

He stands there, his slacks wrinkled and his shirt untucked. The wound on his cheek that had been healing so nicely is open again, red and angry and swollen. And though it doesn’t look broken, his nose is caked with dried blood.

“In,” I say, and hold out my hand.

He takes it, and as soon as he is inside my condo, he pulls me into his arms, his head bent so that his face is pressed against my hair. I cling to him, so overcome with relief that I’m afraid I’ll fall if I let go of him, and I loosen my grip only when I hear him draw in a sharp breath of air.

I release him, then step back, finally taking the time to truly inspect him. “You’re hurt.”

“Trust me,” he says. “I hurt a lot less now.”

I wince, but don’t say anything. I know what he means—how can I not? He’s pounded it away—the pain of dealing with Damien. The wounds inflicted by me.

I force the thoughts from my head. He’s here now, and that is all that matters. “Let me see,” I say as my fingers reach for the buttons on his shirt. I undress him slowly, then carefully peel the white cotton away from his tanned body. His chest is lean and muscled, with broad shoulders and just enough chest hair to give a woman something to tease with her fingers. He is perfection, but right now, his skin is marred by bruises rising in various shades of purple and yellow.

My stomach twists, but I don’t look away. Instead, I hold tight to his hand and pull him farther into the apartment. “Come on,” I say. “We’re going to fix you up.”

“Sylvia, wait. I shouldn’t have—”

I press a finger gently to his lips. “No. Please. We can talk later. Right now I just—” I draw a breath. “Right now I just need to take care of you.”

Tears well in my eyes, because this is my fault. What he’s done to himself. And even though it won’t change anything, I need to try to fix it. Even if only a little. “Please,” I say as I pull our joined hands to my lips. “Let me do this.”

He nods, then follows me to the bedroom. I peel the covers back, then return to Jackson. I’ve left the shirt in the living room, but he’s still wearing his slacks and shoes. I bend down, then untie the laces on his shoes and hold his foot while he slips each off in turn. Then I rise up, my head tilted back slightly so that I can face him as my fingers work his button and fly.

Gently, I tug his pants down, and then his briefs. His cock is semi-erect, and I press my hand lightly over him, cupping the tender skin in my palm. “Not now,” I say gently.

“I know,” he replies. “But I should point out that might be the only part of me that didn’t get the shit kicked out of it last night.”

“I’m glad you know how to protect what’s important,” I deadpan, and am rewarded with a twitch of his lips. “Now sit.”

He does, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. I pull his slacks and briefs the rest of the way off, and then his socks. When he’s naked, I silently indicate that he should lay down.

He doesn’t, though. He stays upright, looking right at me. “You didn’t tell me,” he says. “The press. Calling you about me. You should have told me.”

I lick my lips, then lift a shoulder in a small shrug. “Just a couple of calls when I went in to work yesterday morning. The resort is their angle, so of course they’d want a comment from the project manager, especially since Damien was away.”

“You didn’t give them one.” His mouth curves up, almost into a smile.

“Not one damn word.” Now it’s my turn to grin. “You heard Damien. The official response is ‘no comment.’”

“And if there was no official response?”

I step forward to take his hand. “I’d never say a word to them about you. About anything.”

He leans forward, resting his forehead against my chest as he breathes. Just breathes. His skin is hot to the touch, and I have to resist the urge to tilt his head back and check for fever. I already know what is wrong with him. He’s exhausted, mentally and physically. He needs to sleep. But I can also see that he needs