WASHED AWAY Page 4

  Why the hell is her voice so goddamn breathless?

  Draping the towel over a nearby chair, I pick up the wide-tooth comb, still resolutely avoiding her eyes. “I’ll try to be gentle, but it’s best to try to get any tangles out.”

  “Thank you, Dr. King.”

  I don’t respond but concentrate on running the comb through the long silky strands. The second time I catch on a tangle, I wince. “I’m not very good at this.”

  Even with one hand lightly placed on her head while I work through the tangles in her hair, it’s noticeable when she tenses. My gaze darts to hers, but she stares sightlessly in the distance.

  “It feels like that’s been said to me before.” I force aside my body’s instinctive urge to freeze as a crease forms between her brows, illuminating her confusion. “I just can’t remember who said it.”

  Chapter 10

  HER

  “I’m not very good at this.”

  Dr. King’s words reverberate in my mind on a loop at first before morphing to another timbre. A different man has spoken those same words to me…

  I strain to recall the memory, but it’s distorted. The man’s voice possesses a slight accent as his words replay once again, yet with the barest additional hint of clarity.

  “I’m not very good at this, Little One.”

  Dr. King clears his throat, a veil of caution accompanying his no-nonsense gruff tone. “That can be a good sign. Maybe some of your memory is attempting to come back.”

  I thread my fingers together tightly in my lap, forcing the uneasiness trickling through me to subside. “I hope so.”

  He finally finishes combing through my hair, taking such extreme care that it has my throat swelling tightly. So stern of a demeanor, his physique lean and muscled, I would’ve never anticipated that he could handle me with such gentleness.

  “Ready to head inside?”

  My hopeful gaze meets his placid one, and I arch a brow. “To give me that bath?” I wrinkle my nose. “I hate to be a bother, but I know I can’t possibly smell like roses.”

  He huffs, averting his gaze to rake a hand down his face. The motion radiates discomfort, and it has me offering, “If I can take a bath, I promise not to bother you with anything else.”

  Those brown eyes lock on me with a piercing intensity that has me drawing short of breath. They flare with something indecipherable, the muscle in his jaw flickering, before he mutters, “You’re my patient. If you’re not comfortable, it can inhibit your healing.”

  With that, he extends his hands to me, preparing to help me up from the chair, while his words abrasively scrape against the inside of my skull. “You’re my patient.” His response shouldn’t bother me. He was simply stating a fact.

  So, what the hell is my deal?

  When I try to straighten, agonizing pain sears through me, and my mouth parts on a silent gasp.

  Dr. King’s hands brace my elbows, firm yet gentle. “Take it slow and easy…” His deep voice acts as a soothing balm. With my eyes clinging to his, I draw on the strength visible there. On the strength radiating from his touch. “Don’t tense up. Relax the best you can.”

  He helps me into a fully upright position in the chair, and I will my earlier brazen determination to return. Except now, after the relaxing hair washing, my body feels drained, riddled with discomfort.

  I do my best to force the pain aside. With one hand at the middle of my back and the other where my neck and upper back meet, Dr. King steadies both me and my nerves.

  He allows me a moment to gather myself before helping me to my feet. “I know it’s hard. But your body is inherently intelligent. As long as you give it what it needs, it’ll heal.”

  The millisecond flare of something in his eyes gives me the impression he knows this firsthand.

  A ribbon of determination returns, and I grab on to it desperately. Gritting my teeth, I focus on planting my bare feet firmly on the wooden deck floor. “I can do this.” I say this more for my own benefit than to assure him.

  “I know you can,” comes his soft but gruff reply. I’m not sure why, but his assurance bolsters my confidence.

  With his support, I rise to my feet, gradually straightening my body, though unable to disguise my sharp winces as my wounds protest my movements.

  He surveys me thoroughly. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”

  “No.”

  A beat passes before he finally nods. “All right. Then let’s take it slow.”

  With him guiding me carefully, we reenter the house and pad at a snail’s pace down the hall to the room. Perspiration beads at my forehead as I push through the exhaustion and discomfort. Only a few more steps. Only a few more steps.

  For some reason, I’m compelled to prove to Dr. King that I’m strong. That I’m not weak and won’t wilt even when facing down such extreme circumstances.

  Once he helps me lower myself to the cushioned surface of the gurney, I mash my lips together to suppress a relieved groan.

  “Let me get everything situated to clean you up and change those bandages.” His eyes silently question me.

  “Okay.” That’s all I can muster right now, but it apparently satisfies him. As soon as he disappears from sight, a long, slow breath of relief escapes me.

  When he returns a moment later, I nearly snicker out loud.

  “You’re washing me with a bedpan?”

  Without any trace of expression, he sets it down on a rolling table, along with a towel and washcloth. “At least it’s clean.”

  A laugh breaks free, and at its sound, Dr. King’s gaze lifts to mine. That muscle in his jaw flexes wildly as he eyes my hospital gown. “Let’s get you cleaned up and some fresh bandages in place.”

  “Thank you.” I hope he hears the gratitude in my voice because it’s genuine. I’m grateful for everything he’s done and continues to do for me.

  His eyes flit to mine before returning to the loose-fitting hospital gown I’m wearing, silently asking for permission. Using my unwounded arm, I reach to slide the opposite shoulder down to reveal the bandage, but the lance of agony in my ribs stops me in my tracks.

  “Let me.” At his grunted words, my gaze clashes with his.

  I slowly lower my arm and avert my eyes over his shoulder, focusing on the painting of a toucan. It shouldn’t feel this unnerving, but it does. He’s been treating me and caring for my wounded body for days now and has been nothing but the utmost professional. But he’s still a man. A man about to view my bare body once again.

  Dr. King gently reaches for the back of the gown, untying it at each segment. Then lowering the gown, he eases it from my wounded shoulder first, then the other. The fabric drops to reveal my breasts, and they pebble from exposure to the overhead ceiling fan. Not that he appears to notice. As a doctor, I’m sure he’s seen it all, but being in this position has me feeling much too vulnerable.

  Tugging the fabric away and letting it gather in my lap, he murmurs, “I’ll get you a fresh one once we’re done.”

  With utter care, he dips the washcloth into the pan of soapy water before wringing it out. Then he gently wipes it over my body, and I try my best to suppress my body’s instinctive reaction. After lying here for days, the warm soapy washcloth feels absolutely decadent.

  With each careful swipe of the washcloth, I relax beneath his touch. But when he trails the cloth beneath my breasts, I grit my teeth when my nipples tighten as if inherently yearning for more of his touch.

  What is wrong with me? I can’t answer that because I don’t even know who I am. I have no way of knowing if this man is my type or if I even have a type.

  Frustration swirls inside me like its own destructive cyclone while I avert my gaze to stare past him, internally scolding myself. Resolutely, I remind myself that this man is a doctor as he washes me intimately. He’s likely treated hundreds of people—if not more. I’m certainly not the first female patient he’s come across, and I doubt I’ll be the last.

  After bathing me in a w
arm, freshly rinsed washcloth, he dabs the petal-soft towel along my skin before setting it aside. Grabbing a fresh gown from one of the cabinets, he offers it to me, his movements laced with hesitation.

  “I need to check your wounds and change the bandages, but I’m sure you’ll want to cover up.” Does his voice possess a huskier tone? No. It’s probably just me and my inappropriate delusions.

  Draping the gown over my lap, he helps me arrange the top portion over my breasts, and I secure it with one hand to regain some semblance of modesty.

  He peels away the bandage at my shoulder, and I force myself not to visibly react to the pain. Dr. King inspects my wound, his head lowered a fraction.

  “Both the humidity and lack of air-conditioning create more of a likelihood of bacterial infection, so that’s why I’m keeping an eye on everything until the skin has completely healed closed.”

  With his face closer to mine as he ensures the wound is cleaned before he’ll apply another bandage, my need for a distraction from the discomfort and to satisfy my curiosity compels me to study his profile.

  Dark brown hair that holds golden streaks is tied back from his head, and I wonder what he looks like with it hanging free. Sharp angled cheekbones lie beneath the thick layer of scruff lining his jaw and framing his mouth, drawing my attention to his lips, which are slightly paler in contrast to his dark-tanned skin.

  “No sign of increased redness or irritation.” He rattles this off under his breath as if mentally recording it.

  My lungs constrict in pain when he applies the new bandage, the area surrounding the wound still tender. His eyes dart to mine even though I didn’t make a sound.

  “You just tensed on me.” That penetrating stare bores into me as if he’s attempting to determine every nuance of my pain.

  I choose my words carefully. “It’s a little…sensitive, that’s all.”

  Blunt fingertips go lax on my elbow, but his thumb makes two slow sweeps over my skin as if to silently offer comfort.

  After securing the fresh bandage and sliding my gown back in place, he lifts his eyes to mine. “Think you’ll be able to stand for me again so I can check the rest of your injuries? It won’t take long.”

  Deep brown eyes that hold golden flecks regard me in a manner that gives me a surge of resolve. I can do this. Like he said, my body can heal. I simply have to bear through the discomfort in the meantime.

  I nod, pressing my lips thin, and accept his offer of stability. With my hands on his upper arms, I curl my fingers around his biceps, bracing myself as I tentatively plant my bare feet on the floor.

  “Take your time.” His breath skitters against my temple once I’m straightened. My legs are shaky, so I maintain my hold on him and he doesn’t make any move to rush me. He simply stands by patiently. “Easy does it.”

  I can do this. I can do this. My internal chant prods me to stand straighter and brace myself against the edge of the gurney. As if my muscles are operating from rote memory, I firm my stance, my feet hip-width apart.

  My gaze travels over Dr. King, from the line of scruff along his jaw and framing his lips to the simple cotton T-shirt that stretches across his firm torso and down his corded forearms. Without a doubt, Dr. King is an attractive man, tall, lean, and muscled. My attention locks onto his hands that, though callused and riddled with small scars, handle me with the utmost care.

  When he gathers my gown, holding it aside to inspect the wounds near my hip, I take the fabric from him. His gaze veers to mine.

  “I can hold it so you have both hands free.”

  He nods his thanks and continues to inspect the wound. “Everything here is healing well. No sign of infection.”

  Relief spills over me, but with it brings the awareness of his gentle grip on my upper thigh while his other hand braces my opposite hip. And the slight rasp beneath his touch from my… Ohhell.

  He finishes tending to my wounds and backs away. I release my hold on my gown, letting it drop and cover me once again. My mouth parts, then closes, so torn over whether I should be brazen enough to ask for one more thing.

  “Let’s get you back in bed and comfortable.”

  The instant my eyes rise to meet his, his brow creases. “What’s wrong? Are you in severe pain?”

  Chapter 11

  DR. LIAM KING

  I scan her features before searching her body for any indication of where her pain’s originating but come up empty.

  She still holds herself the same as she was initially and isn’t necessarily favoring one area. So, I’m at a loss as to what’s bothering her.

  Her tongue darts out to moisten her lips. She’s nervous. But why?

  Silently, she leans back on the gurney, and I automatically reach out to steady her. We get her situated with the pillows in place at her back, and she releases a slow exhale.

  “Dr. King? I have a…” She trails off with obvious hesitancy before lifting her chin resolutely. “I have a question for you.”

  My response comes out slowly, cautiously. “Okay.”

  Her mouth parts before snapping shut, lips forming a thin line. Just when I expect her to dismiss her question, tight brackets lining her mouth, she forces out her words in a rapid rush.

  “I know I’ve asked you to go above and beyond to help me, but I feel like I’m bordering on woolly mammoth territory with my legs and underarms, and I just wondered—” She stops abruptly as if she’s run out of steam and blanches. Hastily but softly, she tacks on, “I wanted to see if you could help me shave?”

  As soon as she poses her question, her cheeks bloom with the stain of embarrassment. And fuck it all if I don’t find it adorable as hell.

  Adorable? Christ. What the fuck is wrong with me?

  She’s asking me to shave her legs and underarms. My fingers curl tight into punishing fists as the idea tempts me in ways I’ve not thought possible.

  “I mean, I’m sorry.” She stumbles over her words, cheeks flushing a deeper pink. “It’s a stupid girly thing and”—she lets out a whisper of a laugh—“it’s not exactly in your job description, so just forget it.” Her attempt at a smile grates along me like the roughest gauge of sandpaper.

  “It’s fine.” What?

  “What?” She echoes my internal reaction, blue eyes wide with surprise.

  Christ Almighty. I clench my jaw tight and divert my attention, swiftly gathering up all the supplies, and mutter, “Just give me a minute to clean everything up.”

  “Oh. Wow. Thank you, Dr. King.”

  I clamp my mouth more firmly shut to prevent myself from blurting out, “It’s Liam.” So I don’t stir shit up even more by having to hear my name on her lips.

  Why it even matters, why I’m tempted by it doesn’t make a damn bit of sense. Which means I need to be more careful than ever.

  My movements are terse and quick. I grab a fresh razor and an old can of shaving cream before cleaning and refilling the bedpan with warm water. After setting these items on the table beside her bed, my command is concise.

  “Don’t try to overextend your arm if it’s too painful. And tell me if I cause you any discomfort.”

  Muscles rigid beneath my skin, I reach for her arm and carefully lift it. When she sucks in a shallow breath, my eyes whip to hers in alarm, but her gaze is locked on the sight of the razor.

  Her words are spoken slowly, holding a hint of surprise. “You can just use the warm water.” Blue eyes flit to mine, and her brow furrows in concentration. “I just…remembered that. That I used to shave with just warm water in the shower.”

  My fingers tighten around the razor, the plastic digging into my skin. “Anything else?” Like how the hell you ended up like this?

  Gaze darkening with disappointment, her voice is muted. “No.”

  I clear my throat. “It’ll come back eventually.”

  She lets me lift each of her arms a fraction, just enough to glide the razor along her underarm area. I take my time, ignoring the internal voice that tells me I
’m fucking things up even more. Further muddying the already stagnant and filthy waters of these circumstances.

  Easing up the bottom of her gown to reveal one long leg, tan and firm, I focus on being as clinical as possible.

  That focus turns to shit as soon as I place my hand on her ankle, shaving the stubble sprinkled along her slim calf. The contrast of my darker-tanned skin to the more golden tan of her leg cinches my attention.

  When I lift her leg slightly to shave the underside, I glance up to find her staring at the ceiling as if intent on avoiding eye contact. Fingers knotted together tightly, skin near white in color as it’s stretched over her knuckles, she appears to be wrestling with embarrassment.

  I resolutely return to my task, my fingers climbing higher above her knee as I continue shaving her. When I lift her thigh in order to access the underside, the gown shifts and the undeniable heat radiating from between her legs taunts me.

  Snap out of it, you fucker.

  I clench my jaw so tightly my molars begin to ache. I need to get this over with so I can leave her to rest and put some distance between us.

  Somehow, I manage to finish her entire leg before moving to the other side of the gurney.

  Almost done.

  In my haste to finish the task, I shift her gown to reveal her other leg but gather too much fabric. It bares more than the long, lean limb, and every muscle in my body freezes for the briefest moment.

  My eyes dart up to her only to discover her still staring a hole in the ceiling. She doesn’t appear to be aware that I’ve been presented by this tempting-as-fuck view.

  And the bastard that I am, I pretend I don’t know what I’ve just done.

  Between slow, tedious swipes of the razor, I rinse it in the warm water, and my eyes surreptitiously flick to the edge of her bare pussy. I can almost make out a slight sheen on her outer lips. It’s as if she’s also feeling whatever the fuck this is between us.

  Dread begins to surge through me, and trailing it is the sensation that I’m screwing up in a way that’ll come back to haunt me.