words, pleasure thrumming through her. “Exceedingly, even?”
He growled his assent and kissed her again, his tongue sweet and tart as it stroked over her own.
Hattie’s fingers traced down his torso, the flat of her palm sliding over the magnificent ridges of his body, reveling in the heat of him until she reached the bruises on his side and he sucked in a breath of his own. She instantly released him. He reached for her, pulling her back to his heat. “Don’t think about it.”
She pressed her hands flat to his chest. “Don’t think about the fact that you are bruised?” She resisted. “You took a boot to the side, dammit. Not to mention my blade. You’ll let me have a look.”
He smiled at her insistence. “I did not know you were a medical professional.”
She cut him an irritated look. “I find I do not like it when you are talkative.”
He gave a little bark of laughter and stole a small, delicious kiss. “You cannot blame me for having less interest in my bruises than in your body, Hattie.”
She went soft at the words. “Really?”
“It’s your own fault . . . now I’m curious about your undergarments.”
She resisted the excitement and amusement that came at the words, instead affecting her most serious look. “But I am interested in your bruises.”
A pause, and then a barely-there grunt of acceptance. “If I let you tend to my wounds, will you let me ruin you?”
There it was again, the temptation of freedom. The answer that she did not have to hesitate over.
She met his eyes, loving the fire in them. “Yes.”
Chapter Nineteen
Contrary to Hattie’s belief, Whit had never had a woman in his rooms.
The house had a massive ground floor receiving area and an office for Whit and Devil, so there’d never been reason to have Annika or any of the other women from the warehouse in his rooms. Grace had been in them a half-dozen times, but only long enough to mock his extravagant decor and leave.
As for other women—Whit never brought them here. He didn’t want to answer questions about the space. Didn’t want to defend the odd-shaped garret filled with the things he loved most in the world. And he certainly didn’t want to give another person such access to his private pleasures.
But he had not hesitated to bring Hattie inside, even though the act of welcoming her into the space she called his lair had left him far more exposed than he’d felt when he’d bathed in front of her.
Bathing in front of her had only made him want to pull her into the bathtub with him, strip her out of her ridiculous disguise, and wash her until they were both panting with desire and he had no choice but to make her come until she screamed.
Whit thought he’d been immensely measured in not doing just that, honestly.
And then the woman had started talking about undergarments. He should be fucking sainted for stopping the sinful kiss they’d shared, full of heat and exploration and promise, and letting her tend to him with bandages and ointments when what he needed was her lips and hands.
He thought he showed immense restraint, when all he wished to do was prove that there was nothing at all impeding about the bruises, and he was quite capable of tossing her over his shoulder and taking her to bed.
But he didn’t. Instead, he sat and watched as she selected a wide strip of bandage and a pot of ointment, coming to sit beside him. “Turn toward the light,” she said, staring at his naked torso, as perfunctory as any doctor.
He did, and she reached out, slowly and tentatively. “I’m going to . . .”
“Touch me,” he growled. He didn’t think he could go much longer without her soft fingers on him.
She did as he asked, and they both sucked in a breath. Her gaze flew to his, and she lifted her hand as though she’d been burned. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” he said, catching her fingers and returning them to his skin. “Don’t stop.”
Don’t ever stop.
She didn’t, smoothing over the mottled skin there. “This is a wicked bruise.”
He grunted, trying to ignore the pleasure that came with the sting.
“You should see a surgeon. Do you have a surgeon?”
“I don’t need a surgeon,” he said.
I need this. I need you.
She traced her fingers over the darkest part of the bruise. “I think you might have broken a rib.”
He nodded. “It wouldn’t be the first.”
Her brows shot together. “I don’t