Dr. Denham is a sadistic and evil bastard.

I wake up in the worst pain I have ever experienced. I do not feel like there’s “maybe a bit of grit in my eye.” I do not feel that at all. I feel like a toddler-slash-torture artist tied me down in a sand box, pried my eyes open, packed my eyelids to the bulging point with sand, and then taped them closed. The urge to rub my eyes is overwhelming.

No, scratch that. It isn’t a mere urge. I sometimes get an urge to eat ice cream or hike the Flatirons. Urge is not a strong enough word for what I feel. This is a need. A need so powerful that I moan and reach blindly for the edge of my pillowcase, trying to shove my hands inside before I rip the goddamn goggles off and gouge my own eyes out.

I want to call out for Adam, but when he picked me up and took me home, I told him to leave me alone. The experience of being strapped down and having my eyes pried open with hooked metal tongs, not to mention the joy of actually smelling my own eyeballs burning as they lasered them, left me feeling way too vulnerable and freaked out for company. Especially the kind of company I want to lure to bed in the not so distant future. Black-out goggles are not a sexy look. I was hoping I’d just go to sleep and wake up tomorrow with perfect vision.

I didn’t want to have to ask for any help beyond the ride and the medication management, but I guess that plan’s shot to hell now. Fuck.

“What’s wrong?”

The bed dips and Adam is instantly by my side. He must have ignored my order to get the hell out and leave me alone because there’s no way he could have made it here so fast otherwise. Normally I would be pissed about this of course, but I’m in so much pain that there’s no room for anger.

“The fucking doctor implanted pebbles into my eyelids.”

His hand is on my back, rubbing circles that are probably supposed to be soothing, but I am beyond being soothed right now. This fucking hurts. I writhe around on the bed, ripping my hands out of the pillowcase so I can pretend the mattress is Dr. Denham’s face and punch the shit out of it.

I’m petrified, because I feel my entire existence closing in on me, like I’m trapped in a tiny dark coffin and I can’t move enough to even touch my face. I suck in a breath and I know, without a doubt, that if I don’t get a handle on this soon, I’m going to descend into a panic attack. I had a couple of those when Mom was sick, and they were awful. I don’t want to go there again.

“Hang on, let me check your medication schedule. Maybe I messed up the dose or something.”

Damn. I am a horrible and traitorous person but for the first time I am actually hoping that Adam’s brain has let him down, because a shiny pain pill to knock me out again would go down like a frickin’ treat right now. I should feel bad about this, I know, and I’m sure I will. Later.

“Do not exceed one pill every four hours,” Adam reads aloud. “You had one at ten o’clock and it’s only midnight now.” His voice is tight with concern and I don’t blame him. I’ve got goggles taped to my face, there are probably trails of drool all over my chin, my hair is so tangled that the roots are actually stinging my scalp, and I’m about three seconds from launching myself blindly in the direction of his voice to tackle him and frisk him for pain pills.

He should be scared, damn it.

“The doc said they’re pretty powerful,” Adam says. “I could try giving you another one, though, if it’s really bad.”

“No,” I grunt. “I’ll tough it out.”

I can do this. Ben once completed a medal-winning run with three fractured ribs. Adam’s broken his collarbone twice and it barely slowed him down. There’s no way those two are tougher than me. I can do this. I have to.

“Are you sure, Pipes? It looks like you’re really hurting over there.”

“I’m sure. Just…” I trail off because I want to tell him what to do to fix this, but all delusions of control are gone, and I have no idea what to do. The pain and irritation is so intense that I can’t get on top of anything, and in less than a minute I’m writhing around on the bed again, fisting the sheets and trying not to puke.

“Sometimes it helps to walk around,” Adam suggests. His voice is close again and I hate that I can’t see him. I’m thrashing around so much that I didn’t hear him move. He’s seeing me at my most weak and vulnerable, and I can’t even keep track of where he is in the room.

“That might be good.” I peel my fingers open and reach out blindly for his hand.

He grabs hold of me, his hand rough and warm, and pulls me gently to the edge of the bed.

“Do you want to go upstairs?”

I shake my head. “Can’t.”

There’s no way I could deal with stairs right now. My brain is shutting down and I’m going to a place I’ve never been before. I can’t coordinate enough thought and movement for stairs; I’m in a dark tunnel and all I can do is stumble through the next step.

Adam tugs me up and takes my arm. “Right. We’ll pace then. Five steps this way, turn around, five steps back.” We start walking and I trip on my own feet, but he’s right there to hold me up.

“When I was in the hospital and the pain got really bad, it helped me to count,” he says.

One, two, three, four, five. Turn.

“Count?”

“Yeah, I’d pick a big number, like ten thousand, and count my way there. It gave me something pretty mindless to concentrate on and by the time I got there I’d sometimes feel better.”

Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. Turn.

“What if you didn’t?”

“I’d start over.” He laughs. “Lots of times I’d lose count anyway, especially at the beginning. I’d try to get to ten thousand and get stuck at a hundred.”

Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three, forty-four, forty-five. Turn.

He keeps me steady while we pace my room, back and forth, me counting under my breath and stumbling. After a while the turning makes me dizzy, so we spin the other way. I have no idea how long we keep it up, but when I hit eight thousand, something shifts. The urgency lifts. The pain is still there, but it isn’t the only thing I can think about. I begin to notice other things.

Mundane things, like the worn spot in the carpet that I hit on every fifth step away from the bed and the sound of the furnace turning on and off and the warm air blowing from the vents.

Dangerous things, like the wave of scent that hits me when Adam spins me gently around on the turn: clean cotton and male skin and a hint of something spicy that makes me want to bury my face in his chest. The way his thumb is rubbing little circles on the inside of my elbow: clockwise in one direction and counterclockwise on the return trip.

“I think I’m good,” I say, slowing to a stop.

He drops my arm and exhales a low groan. Air rushes past my hands and I realize he must be swinging his arms, stretching them out in relief. He was enduring his own pain to help me through mine, and for some reason this makes me want to cry.

Also jump his bones.

Must be the painkillers.

Wait. Those fuckers aren’t working. This is all me.

“Sure you’re feeling better?”

I nod. My eyes are still sore and irritated, but the overwhelming need to rub them and the claustrophobic fear have faded.

“Yeah, I’m thirsty, though.”

In more ways than one, sister.

“Want me to go get you something?”

I shake my head. “I’ll go upstairs. I want to keep moving.” I swallow. Hard. Then I force my mouth open and spit out my least favorite words. “Will you help me?”

It’s probably a good thing I’m blind, because I’m sure he is channeling Smuggy McSmugerstein the Third right now and looking at his face would only make me want to hit him.

But he doesn’t rub it in, which is more than I would probably do.

“Of course,” he says.

Then his hand is back, warm and firm on my elbow, and he’s guiding me slowly out of the room.

“First stair’s right here.”

I stumble a little, but we make it up in one piece. He brings me to the kitchen and leaves me standing in the middle of the room, full of restless energy and bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet while I hear him open the fridge.

“No beer for you, Little Miss Painkiller, so you’ve got a choice of water, ginger ale, or orange juice.”

“Ginger ale, please.” It’s what my mom used to bring me when I was little and stayed home sick from school.

The crash of the ice cubes into the glass makes me jump.

“Sorry,” he says. “Should have warned you.”

“It’s okay. Not being able to see is really strange. Everything seems louder and, I don’t know, sharper somehow. More intense.”

More arousing.

Arousing? An hour ago I was honestly considering bashing my own head against the wall until I passed out to escape the pain in my eyes, and now all of a sudden I’m considering an entirely new way to find oblivion.

There must be a medical reason for this. Beyond the fact that I’m hornier than Chuckles was before the big snip. My other senses are compensating for my lack of sight, is all.

Yeah, your other senses: hearing, touch, taste, smell, and lust.

The ginger ale fizzes as he pours it out, and it’s like the cool bubbles are leaping and popping along my skin. I shiver.

“Cold? You’ve got goose bumps.”

He puts the icy glass into my hand, and I gulp it down too fast and end up with ginger ale running down my chin. Excellent. Exactly the understated elegance I was looking for.

“Can’t take me anywhere,” I mutter, swiping my hand across my mouth. I feel about as sexy as a pirate with grog dripping off his manky beard. Which is inconvenient, because I happen to know that Adam doesn’t have a thing for pirates. Not ones with beards, anyway.

He chuckles. “Hang on, killer.”

Air moves past my face and a soft towel is dabbing my chin, gently soaking up the sticky soda. No other part of Adam is touching me, and I can’t see him, but I have never been so aware of another person. It’s like we’re magnets, being drawn together, and the field between us is palpable. Once centimeter closer and we’ll snap into each other and never let go.

His hand is really close to my cheek, close enough to feel the heat of his skin. I sigh and turn my head, just a tiny bit, not close enough to touch. Because what if I start rubbing up against him and he pulls away? He didn’t exactly blow me off on the phone yesterday but telling me we need to talk before anything can happen between us can’t be a good sign.

“You really did a number on this shirt.” The towel moves, rubbing in little circles down my neck to my chest, where the fabric is clinging to my breasts, cold and sticky and uncomfortable. I hold my breath, but he doesn’t go any farther, despite the fact that my nipples must be practically impaling him.

A sloppy pirate with grog-beard, bed head, and high beams shining through her Wonder Woman pajama shirt.

How is he not begging for sex right now?

“I think you’re good.” His voice is gruff, and I swear he groans a little as he gives my chest one last swipe, but then he moves away.

“Thanks.” I hear him near the sink, rinsing the towel out and humming to himself.

“We should have music,” I blurt out. Because TV would only annoy me, but I can’t take this silence anymore. It makes me too aware of every single move he makes and too self-conscious about my own ragged breaths. I need cover.

“Sure. What do you want to listen to?”

“Anything’s fine. My iPod’s hooked up to the speakers. Just hit play.”

“Done. Want to go over to the sofa?”

I shake my head. “Actually, I think I need to keep moving. Let’s dance.”

He snorts. “You want to dance?”

“Yes.” And suddenly I really, really do. I need to move, to burn off some of this crazy energy. And I already look like a frickin’ idiot who can’t even manage to feed herself, so it’s not like I have a lot of pride left. It’s not going to be sexy, seductive, come-fuck-me dancing, but who cares? I need to shake it.

“I don’t dance,” Adam says, reminding me of something I know very damn well. The guy is grace personified on a snowboard, and, believe me, he has a very good sense of rhythm when performing other physical feats, but dancing has always been a no-go.

“Because you’re afraid you’ll look stupid. But guess what?” I wave my hands in front of my face. “I can’t see shit. You’re safe. Judgment-free dance zone right here, my friend.”

No answer, but I hear the scrape of furniture moving.

“Are you clearing us a dance floor?”

“I’m clearing you a dance floor.”

“Not good enough. Dance with me.”

Still no answer, only echoing steps as he heads over to my iPod on the counter. I strike a pose, waiting for the music to start, and Adam chuckles.

“I forgot how damn goofy you are,” he says. His voice is warm, and I crave more words, more laughs, just…more. More happy Adam.

Ed Sheeran’s “Shape of You” starts and I tap my foot, shaking my shoulders and giving my hips a little extra wiggle. I know I look like an idiot, but that was always the thing about me and Adam. I never cared about looking like an idiot in front of him. I’d forgotten that.

“Dance with me,” I say again. I hold out my hand in the direction the music is coming from and smile. “Just this once. I’ll never tell a soul.”

Tap, tap, tap. My foot marks the beat and I can feel my hand shaking, just a little, as I wait. This was probably not my best plan. Then suddenly he’s there, grabbing my hand in his, holding on tight and not letting go.

Please don’t let go.

“All right, Easton,” he whispers in my ear. “Show me what you’ve got.”