But because it kept the smile on her face, she agreed with his choice.

  Chapter 18

  He couldn’t remain standing for wound treatment. Had Dorian’s life been at stake, maybe, but over the last couple of hours, every time he even brushed the leg against a twig, he felt tremors up to his hip and down to his ankle.

  Even if Dorian just added salve to the wound before rebandaging it—and he suspected the bullet hole was going to need more than that—he’d risk losing his footing and falling on her.

  He’d seen some oozing on the bandage when he’d used the restroom at Grace’s place.

  Which likely meant infection.

  So when she told him to give her access to the wound, and to lie down, he didn’t argue.

  He did wait until she’d turned her back to get supplies before pulling down his pants, lying back and making damned sure his shirt covered every part of his groin area.

  Just to be certain, he grabbed the dirty T-shirt he’d worn on the first day of hiking and laid that across him, too.

  If she found him prudish, he didn’t give a damn.

  And if, as he suspected, she figured out that he was finding her more woman than doctor, then at least she wouldn’t know for sure.

  Even with the throbbing he felt lying down, he was still getting hard, just being in his underwear, knowing she was going to be bending over him.

  Touching him.

  Feeling like some kind of sick jerk, he swallowed. Hard.

  “I know this is going to seem cliché, but I want you to bite down on this...” She’d brought the burner phone with her, had the light shining on what looked like a stripped clean stick that had been soaked in something at some point.

  But was currently dry.

  He took the stick. Stared at it.

  Did not put it in his mouth.

  “I made it last night,” she said. “Just in case you woke up before I got the bullet out. And it’s not just a movie thing. It’ll help protect your teeth from gritting them too hard, which can cause damage to the teeth. More than that, it engages the thalamus, your pain receptor, with more than one message at the same time, which distracts some...”

  She’d been talking while she unbandaged his wound. Ripping quickly enough that he barely had to bite as tape left hair. The intense focus with which she studied his leg, the interruption to her conversation told him what he’d feared.

  He put the stick in his mouth.

  Held it lightly between his teeth. Leaving more intense biting in case he needed it later. Noted the cactus juice taste.

  Prickly pear again.

  He’d told her that of the four juices they’d had the day before, he’d preferred the pear.

  Could be why she’d chosen that particular fruit.

  Could also have been that the prickly pear was all that had been easily and readily available to her the night before.

  Dorian’s gaze had never looked more serious as she moved the flashlight around, moving her head with it, as though some different angle was going to change what she was seeing.

  More likely, she was taking in every single speck of the wound, determining just how bad a problem he presented.

  He started to get tense. He knew that his muscles tightening wasn’t going to help the process for either of them, and took the stick out of his mouth long enough to say, “You said it was just a flesh wound, Doc.”

  Her nod showed zero lightening of mood. “It’s infected,” she told him. “It went too long with that bullet in it, raw and open, with the dirt...”

  “I’m not blaming your skills, Doc,” he said then, caring more about her mental state at the moment than his own. If she was going to start blaming herself...

  He put the stick back in his mouth.

  “Bite down.”

  He did so. Without pause.

  Felt light pressure on his thigh, around the wound.

  Nothing that needed a stick in his mouth to endure. Unless that stick was going to lessen the pressure heading to another male stick in her near vicinity.

  What the...

  “The pus seems to be all at the surface,” she said then, shrinking his male member right down. He missed the distraction, most particularly when she continued. “There’s no apparent abscess, yet, which is huge. No sign of need to be overly concerned about tetanus.”

  Until that moment, he’d never considered that possibility. “I’m current on my shots,” he let her know then. Wanting to reach up and wipe the frown from her brow.

  Not sexually. Just...because she looked so worried, and he wasn’t worth that. He’d be fine. He always was.

  “I’m going to have to drain the wound,” she told him, gathering up something from beside her and positioning the light on some rocks she’d brought with her. One taller, one smaller to hold up the phone. Obviously, something she’d figured out the night before.

  “It’s going to hurt like hell.”

  He nodded. Figuring nothing was going to be much worse than what he’d endured the previous night, climbing up that mountain with the bullet in an open wound that was rubbing on his pant leg every step of the way.

  “Counting down from three,” she said, and then, “Three, two, one...”

  It took every ounce of everything in him to keep Scott from yelling as the burning, shooting pain went up and down his leg. His fingers dug into the pallet beneath him. He was biting for all he was worth.

  And her fingers seemed intent on killing him.

  For a time there, as she let up while wiping the area and changing position slightly before applying pressure again, he wished he was already in his grave.

  Or that he’d at least pass out.

  One thing kept him there with her. The concern on her face.

  That, way more than the stick, distracted him enough to keep him conscious.

  “You okay?” she asked at one point, glancing over at him.

  He might have nodded. He meant to.

  He was certain he met her gaze full on. Trying to tell her that she was doing a great job. And that he was going to be just fine.

  And then, as quickly as the debilitating pain had started, it was done. She was reaching beside her again. He braced himself for more.

  “This salve will not only help prevent any further infection, it’s also got some lidocaine in it. It will help with the pain. We’re going to need to tend to this every four hours, for the next day at least, whether you like it or not.”

  He wasn’t arguing.

  Almost jerked upright when he first felt the solution being spread over his wound, but quickly relaxed as Dorian’s tender touch soothed more than it hurt.

  The bandage was more than it had been. Thicker.

  It was going to hurt like hell, ripping all that tape off the hair on his leg. But...damn...he was already feeling less pain. If that was even possible.

  Or maybe his thalamus was just too busy taking other messages. Like what a relief it was to see the lines leaving Dorian’s forehead.

  To notice the way her chin and cheeks had relaxed back to their normal positions, making her easily one of the most beautiful women he’d ever known.

  Red hair, no freckles. Brown eyes, not green. Everything about Dorian Lowell was unusual. Different. Setting her apart in his mind.

  Making her one of a kind to him.

  He couldn’t be blamed for noticing...

  Good Lord, she was pulling his pants off over his shoe. The shackle he’d purposely left in place.

  “I’m going to lift your leg.”

  What the...

  He glanced down. She was holding gauze. Intended to wrap it around his thigh. He started to raise his foot.

  “No, let me do it. I don’t want that muscle flexed right now.”

  Yeah, well, he didn’t want other things. And muscles couldn’t always be fully controlled.

  She’d already lifted. Used her shoulder to help bear some weight, and there was her face, almost right smack in front of his newly exposed and very tender manly parts, only partially covered by his borrowed briefs.

  There’d only been one size. He’d grabbed a few pairs. Had shared them with Dorian. There hadn’t been any feminine undergarments.

  Was she wearing a pair of the briefs, too?

  The thought was the absolute wrong one, bringing him into complete, full on, ready mode.

  No way she didn’t know, with her hands down there, her gaze still focused, his region under that damned mobile spotlight...

  “I apologize,” he said, quite seriously. “With everything in me, I’m sorry...”

  She shook her head, seemingly not in the least bit fazed. “It’s a perfectly normal reaction. Don’t worry about it.”

  The words should have shrunk him right up.

  Might have done so if he hadn’t, at that moment, glanced at Dorian’s breasts—because...he was a normal healthy guy who was turned on and there they were, also in the spotlight as she bent over him—only they weren’t just breasts in a bra and shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra. And her shirt was stretched tight as she reached back for scissors to cut the gauze.

  Letting him see, with way too much clarity, that her nipples were hard as rocks.

  And it wasn’t the least bit cold in that cave.

  * * *

  He’s a patient. He’s a patient. He’s a patient.

  As Dorian opened yet another of the precious antiseptic wipes to clean her hands after taping off Scott’s gauze, she continued the litany in her head.

  He’s a patient.

  Except that—he wasn’t.

  He hadn’t come to her for her professional services.

  And she wasn’t at work.

  He wasn’t a patient.

  He was Scott Michaels. The man who’d upended her early adult life and shaped the rest of it.

  The man who’d just saved her life.

  And she was doing what she could to save his.

  The fact that she was attracted to him didn’t have anything to do with his bullet wound. Fourteen years before, she’d been turned on to the point of changing her entire future, disappointing so many, hurting people she loved, without seeing the man’s hard-on.

  But seeing it there...so many years later...after two days of fighting to stay alive with him, being hunted with him, caring for a baby with him...

  Well, that was a cruel twist of fate.

  She had to quit looking at it.

  “You said it was a perfectly normal reaction.”

  Turning her back on it, she gathered up her supplies. Telling herself to take a sip of juice for her dry throat.

  Returned the medical paraphernalia to the zippered kit. Put that back in the satchel. Just as she’d done the night before. If they had to leave on the run, things had to be packed and ready.

  She heard movement behind her. A quick glance showed her Scott trying to work the jeans up over his bandage.

  He needed to be dressed. Ready to run.

  She didn’t want the pants up.

  But she needed them up.

  In a sitting position, with his leg straight out in front of him, he was struggling. She’d told him no weight bearing for at least a couple of hours as she’d applied the last piece of surgical tape. She only had two more sets of closure strips and didn’t want to risk having to go into the wound a third time.

  Satchel zipped, she moved back over to her worst temptation. Focusing on the medical knowledge filling her mind. Back in complete, professional control. “Let me help with that.”

  And...slide.

  The pants were up over the gauze. Her hand on one side, his on the other. Joint effort. He lifted his hips. She pulled before he did. Hard enough to get the job done quickly. As his left hand faltered, her bit of a tug ended up with a hand slipping from the jeans, her fist grazing...

  Scott’s enlarged penis.

  Their eyes met. Held. She knew what hers were saying, traitors that they were. And even her mind, that which she could always rely upon to save her from emotional disaster, let her down. Played tricks on her.

  Telling her that his gaze was communicating a mutual fire that was about to burn out of control.

  If they let it.

  Were they going to let it?

  She continued to lock gazes with him. Silently. Unable to commit. Or to save herself.

  She thought.

  Until her mind presented words and she spoke them aloud. “I feel like I owe you one. For the past. Coming on to you like I did. And then stopping so abruptly...”

  What was she saying? Her hand was there. Was she seriously considering...

  “I don’t do one-ways.” His low, sexy drawl brought her gaze from his crotch back to his eyes. “Either we both go or no go,” he said then, completely serious.

  Fire burned within her. Through her. Lighting places she hadn’t known she had. Her temporal lobe, her amygdala, was acting out. Having a hell of a tantrum. Careening out of control.

  She tried to think. To reason. To think medical thoughts.

  To bring herself back from the brink of sure disaster once again.

  And said, “I thought I was going to die last year when I was kidnapped. My childhood best friend nearly did. And this week...it’s like being in a die-fest...a messed-up world where roulette isn’t a game. It’s a reality.”

  The thoughts were clear.

  And very clearly emotion based.

  But rational, too.

  More, they were stronger than anything else she had out there on the mountain, perhaps on her deathbed. “There’s something about you,” she said then, sitting there beside the man, his pants stuck just below the engorged proof neither of them was denying. “Before, and now. Maybe I need to do this. There’s something I need to know. Something only you can teach me.”

  And knowing was the key to acting, rather than being acted upon.

  “Are you saying it’s a two-way, then? Because, I have to tell you, Doc, this is getting a little painful here.”

  The words could have filled her with guilt, her there, hovering over a bullet-wounded thigh. But his eyes, smoldering, without a hint of discomfort from his injury in their dimly lit depths, were showing her how very much he wanted what she’d started.

  Years before, and then, too.

  “I want it as badly as you do.” She was honest with him. “Maybe worse.”

  “Not possible.” His chuckle held little humor, and a whole lot of hunger that sent pangs resounding through her.

  And still she sat there. Fighting to save herself. And him, too. Without coming up with any way having sex that night would hurt either one of them.

  It wasn’t like it would affect anyone else.

  And in her life, there was no one who would even care.

  “I have no desire to marry or be in a permanent relationship.” She blurted the words.

  “Already figured that one,” he gave right back. “And ditto.”

  She could do it. There was nothing stopping her. And still, “I’m a total failure when it comes to emotional stuff. I get it wrong. And those close to me suffer.”

  The words might be all wrong. They felt right.

  “Warning received.” He chuckled again. Slid his hands up under her shirt, finding her hardened nipples. Sending wild sensations through her. Wiping away the world. Making her want to spread her legs and do things.

  To do, and be done upon.

  Not a one or the other situation.

  Standing, her gaze locked with his again, pinpoint to pinpoint in the near darkness, she pulled down her pants. Stepped out of them. Feeling...powerful...in her borrowed underwear rather than embarrassed by them. She and Scott were in their crashed world together.

  Sharing everything.

  Relying on each other for life itself.

  “You’re killing me here.”

  “You have a condom?”

  “In my wallet.”

  He couldn’t get up. She’d forbidden it. After taking off her odd underwear she knelt down on the pallet beside him. Reached under his butt, taking her time at it, to get the wallet out.

  Retrieved protection, was ripping into it when he said, “Shirt off, please.” His tone was strangled sounding. And lest he suffocate, she complied. Feeling more powerful than ever as her breasts hung free before him.

  His hands slid up her stomach, sending delicious chills through her. She reached for his briefs. Pulled down as he lifted his hips.

  And within a minute, careful not to put any pressure on his thigh, had impaled herself on him.

  She rode him, losing all thought, exploding, feeling him explode.

  And then, still awash in residual sensation, she sat there, holding him within her.

  Chapter 19

  Scott was getting hard again. Normally a one and done, head to the shower kind of guy, he couldn’t believe himself.

  He was injured. Exhausted.

  And ready to go again?

  Dorian pulled off from him slowly, taking the condom with her. And when she returned to the pallet, she’d donned her clothes again.

  He got the message.

  Didn’t want it.

  He’d been able to flip his briefs back in place without lifting. Had done so as he’d realized she wasn’t coming back for seconds.

  Wondered if he’d ever left a woman lying in bed after sex, wanting more. Hoped not.

  It didn’t feel good.

  Dorian knelt beside him. Grabbed hold of one side of his jeans with one hand, and gently lifted his thigh with the other. “Let me help with these,” she said, softly, calmly.

  Professional-like.

  The doctor had returned. He didn’t want her. In that moment, he didn’t need her. He wasn’t helpless. And while it might be best for his wound if he lay still for hours, the reality was, they could be up and on the run in minutes.