Grace
I winced, a small whine escaping my lips as the antiseptic touched the cut on my forehead.
It stung, but what surprised me more than the pain was how gentle he was being.
Apollo Reed, the man I thought was made of ice and stone, was cleaning my wound with a kind of care I didn’t think he was capable of. His hands were precise as if I were made of glass.
And for a moment, I didn’t know what to do with that.
I’d convinced myself that if I came here tonight, it would just be s*x. There would be no tenderness, and aftermath. I thought he would take what he wanted and then it would be over. But now he was here with me on his desk, dabbing the cut on my forehead with soft cotton, tossing each bloody piece in the trash beside him without a word.
I stared at his hands.
Long fingers, c
