Cordelia froze, then looked down and saw the blood. She sighed and sat beside me, way too close for a man who still had testosterone in his system.
“I need to clean that wound,” she murmured, gently taking my hand in hers.
Her fingers were warm. Gentle. Professional.
Until she glanced up at me through those lashes.
And suddenly nothing felt professional at all.
“You don’t have to,” I muttered, trying to sound casual. “I’ve had worse.”
“You have grit in the wound. It’ll get infected.”
She opened a small bottle of antiseptic and dabbed at the bite on my hand. I flinched—not because it hurt, but because she was so damn close. The scent of her—floral, earthy, something like soap and something like sin—was messing with my brain.
“This might sting,” she said softly.
“Go ahead. I can tak
