Taming Hollywood's Baddest Boy - Max Monroe Page 0,40
gently prod around her exposed skin with my fingertips, and Billie hisses in discomfort. I can’t blame her. It’s already starting to bruise, and the swelling makes it look twice its normal size. From the top of her petite foot all the way to the bottom of her calf, it’s spreading rapidly.
“That hurt?” I ask, looking up to search her face, and she nods.
“Like a real son of a bitch.” Like sugar and spice, her voice and her words are an ironic contrast. That cute little accent of hers could make the world’s worst insults sound adorable. “And I’m pretty sure my cell phone is toast.”
I snort to myself. Now, that, I don’t feel bad about.
She reaches out to grab it from the rocks and stares down at the broken screen. “Ugh, the damn thing won’t even turn on!”
“Pretty sure that phone should be the least of your concerns, princess. It’s not like it was doing you any good out here anyway, but your ankle…probably not a bad thing to have use of.”
She rolls her eyes toward the sky. “Yeah, but when I get back to civilization, I need the phone more than the ankle. So, really, who can say what’s more important.”
I can. “The ankle.”
She sticks out her tongue at me and crosses her eyes, clearly unamused with my unsolicited response. Even with her ankle damn nearly broken, she’s still all sass. I bite my lip to hide my grin and force my gaze to leave the full, pink lips of her mouth and back to her injured ankle.
God, I’m a real bastard for letting her fall behind. I got so caught up in messing with her that I forgot how easily things can go south out here. And I take my responsibility for her safety seriously. I knew that’s what I was signing on for from the beginning. I wouldn’t have let her come, no matter how hard she fought me about it, if I weren’t prepared for the obligation.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, and she tilts her head to the side in confusion.
“For what?”
“For this.”
“It’s not like you pushed me down,” she replies, a tiny laugh echoing around in the slender line of her throat. “Pretty sure I did this all on my own.”
Yeah, but I should’ve been looking out for you.
As I’m examining her ankle, I try to ignore the fact that Billie Harris has insanely cute feet, but it’s a pretty hard task to achieve when one of them is in your hand. Her toenails are painted bright pink, and the now-familiar soft scent of vanilla and honey fills my nostrils.
I shouldn’t know that scent is from her lotion, but I do. It’s a white bottle with yellow writing, and she slathers that stuff on her hands about every half mile. It’s why the bugs won’t leave her alone, but up until now, I haven’t had even the slightest desire to fill her in.
But guilty conscience flaring up or not, right now, the priority is her ankle. It’s already bruised and swollen, and I worry she may have broken something. I work quickly to assess her mobility and pain level.
“Can you wiggle your toes?” She nods and moves them back and forth without any issues.
“Can you point your toes?” She does, wincing slightly at the action but bearing it.
“Okay, good. Now try writing the alphabet with them.”
Billie crinkles her nose. “Say what?”
“Just try to write the letter A with your toes.”
“A lowercase A or capital A?”
Lord help me.
“Whichever will work just fine, princess.”
“All right, I guess I’ll try lowercase…” She pauses, then starts up again. “Wait. No, I’ll do capital.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes and welcome back a swirl of feelings I’m much more comfortable with than the ones of guilt and affection I’ve been mired in for the last ten minutes. Frustration, aggravation, impatience—these are things I’m familiar with. “Sounds great.”
Without too much difficulty, Billie moves her toes up, down, and then horizontal.
“Could you tell it was an A?” she questions. “I can do it again if you want—”
“I’m not grading your toes’ penmanship, for God’s sake. Just trying to see how much movement you have in your ankle.”
“Oh.” She blushes, and I’ll be damned if I’m not feeling shit I don’t like again.
I wonder how that blush would look all the way down her chest…at the top of her pussy…all over the insides of her tiny thighs—son of a bitch, stop, you horny bastard. Focus on the ankle.