some butterfly sutures in the pocket next to the strap,” Sterling says, pointing.
It takes me a few minutes, but eventually I find antibiotic ointment, cotton swabs, and sutures. Sterling instructs me patiently, but I can’t help getting the feeling he’s drowsy. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Me?” he asks. “I’m fine. It’s just an adrenaline crash.”
I clean the cut over his eye with an alcohol swab, expecting him to wince in pain. But he looks stoic as I rub burning hot alcohol into his wound, then dab ointment into it with a swab. “What’s an adrenaline crash?”
“After your adrenaline spikes—I mean really spikes—”
“Such as when fighting an FBI agent in a downtown Nashville cafe?” I try to sound stern, but, honestly, I’m too relieved to have this behind us to stay angry at him for getting in a fight. He’s been building toward it all day.
“Yeah, after that, your body goes back to its normal equilibrium. It’s like going from Superman to just Clark Kent.”
“So you’re only a mere mortal now,” I say.
“Clark Kent is always Superman. Sometimes he just hides it.”
“So you’re saying, you still have superhuman stamina?”
“Only one way to find out.” He pulls me close, not mistaking what I meant. His lips are on mine, and without thinking I bring my hand to his face—right on top of the gash on his cheek I haven’t cleaned yet. He flinches hard, almost jumping out of his skin.
“Sorry,” I plead. I don’t think it’s totally my fault, but he probably doesn’t see it that way.
“Never be sorry, Lucky,” he says as I take care of his cheek just like I did his brow. His hands fiddle with the straps of my dress. “How was your day?”
I fill him in on the highlights, glossing over the worst of it. He’s got enough to worry about.
“You okay?” he asks when I finish.
“Fine.” I tell myself it’s the truth, because while we might have dealt with some problems today, there’s still a lot left for us to conquer.
“Liar,” he whispers. “It’s going to be okay.”
“Done,” I say, leaning down to his perch on the stool and kissing the side of his brow that’s not cut up. I pull him to me, planting both my hands as far away from his face as I can, on his back—I don’t trust them anymore.
He winces in pain anyway, and I jump back. “What now?”
“Sorry. Kidney.”
“Well, what can you do?” I say, my hand flashing to my mouth as soon as the words are out.
“What can I do?” he says, repeating the phrase again with maximum incredulity, a hungry look coming over him. He stands and lifts me over his shoulder in one fluid movement, and just like that he’s carrying me to the bedroom.
He almost tosses me on the bed when we arrive, and has to flex his back to loosen it up before crawling on top of me. I feel his cock beneath his suit pants, rubbing against the thin fabric of my skirt, and instantly, I’m ready.
He leans down and kisses my collarbone, his hand cupping my ass and drawing my hips against his. “I didn’t know fighting was a turn on for you.”
“Neither did I,” I admit.
He shoves my skirt up and my legs open in invitation.
“We need a condom. I missed my pill,” I warn him.
“In the drawer of the nightstand,” he says.
I roll over slightly, my hand searching the interior of the draw, but it’s bare. “Nothing there.”
“In a box under the bathroom sink,” he mumbles, letting me slip from underneath him, and propping himself on his side as I disappear to the bathroom.
“Which sink?” I call in to him.
“Left, I think,” he says distantly.
It’s not the left sink, or the right. There’s another cabinet mounted about the toilet, though, and—thank God—the box of condoms is in there.
“Found one!” I declare triumphantly, returning to the bedroom. Sterling’s still propped on his side, his back turned to me. I climb on top of him, kissing behind his ear and taking care to avoid his sensitive spots—or, at least the ones I know about.
He lets out a strange grunt, almost like he’s clearing his throat.
“Sterling?”
Avoiding the large, swollen, purple welt on his side, I shake him firmly.
He responds by letting out a long, deeply satisfied snore. I finish tugging off his pants, which takes some effort since he’s out like a rock. Tossing them on the ground, I pull off my dress.
“Damn. You owe me one, Ford,” I whisper, slipping into the space beside