I wake up in a bed. A warm bed.

Something stirs near my feet, and my body tenses, ready to attack whatever it is.

Then I look up and see that it’s a dog. A Pomeranian. It looks like a lion that was demoted so many times it turned into a teddy bear.

It wags its tail and tilts its head back and forth at me. Why the hell is a dog on my bed? I don’t have a dog.

I look around and realize it’s not my bed. The sheets and pillows are pink, and it smells too damn good to be anywhere I’d live.

The Pomeranian jumps up onto my chest, gets its face in mine, and starts licking me. Its tongue finds the gash on my forehead, and it licks once or twice, then stops.

I reach up and touch the wound. I feel the textured pattern of stitches.

The feminine smell of the room hits me hard then, and I see Angel’s big innocent eyes flash into my mind. The memory of last night jolts back into me all at once. Last night: one stupid fucking decision after another, until it built up into an avalanche. Into me getting this nurse–this woman who is too good to be true–into my shit. Into danger.

I push the dog back, and it looks up at me as if I’d rejected a gift, so I pet it on the head a few times to make it feel better. It sticks its tongue out and wags its tail, looking satisfied that I acknowledged it.

“You a girl or a boy?” I ask in a low whisper.

Fuck it, who cares? I’m not going to stick around here long enough that I need to make friends with Angel’s dog.

There’s a window in this room. I can just sneak out.

I pull the blankets off and see that I’m in my boxers. My leg is stitched up too. I think about Angel pulling all my clothes off. Seeing all my scars and tattoos. Seeing my muscular body all but naked while she tended to my leg.

I grin thinking about her seeing me, touching me.

I put my good leg down first, and I slowly put my weight onto it. Seems good. Then I move my bad leg down, and I press it gently to the carpet. I slowly add weight to it, but the pain ramps up immediately. I wince and gasp for air almost immediately, and when I try to walk, the edges of my vision go dark as the pain rips through me.

“Fuck,” I hiss.

The dog leaps off the bed, wags its tail right next to my feet, and barks.

“Shh,” I hiss.

I fumble to open the window. It’s broad daylight out, and I don’t even have any clothes. The police are looking for me–well–one cop is looking for me. Can I really limp around outside in my boxers in the middle of the day? It’s a small town, how long until he finds me?

“Hey,” her voice says from behind me.

I turn around, my hands on the window.

Jesus. When I saw her last night she was wearing a thick winter jacket. Now she’s wearing tight jeans–nah, it’s not the jeans that are tight, it’s just that her curves are so out of control they stretch the jeans to their limits. And her tits, that sweater she’s wearing does nothing to hide them. They are big and full, and they flow down into the feminine curves of her waist. The sweater clings tight to her curvy body. When I finally look up to see her thick, full lips. They are pursed up in disapproval, and she bats her eyes as she shakes her head. I drink the sight of her in, too dumbfounded to speak.

“You were going to run off,” she says. “Normally a man sleeps with me first before he runs off.”

I smile. “Maybe we have time for a quickie. Though I usually prefer to take my time.”

She smiles at my joke, but points down at my leg and changes the subject. “Your leg isn’t broken, but it’s sprained. It’s completely inflamed. If you rest for like two days, it will be 80 to 90% better. If you keep walking on it like that, it will stay like this.”

“Thanks for stitching me up,” I say.

“If you remember last night,” she says. “The cold exacerbated the inflammation, and you couldn’t even walk a few steps. Remember that?”

“Yeah,” I say. “You also promised not to nag me.”

She jabs a finger at me. “I promised not to take you the hospital. I never promised not to nag you. Now how does your leg feel?”

My leg? It feels like shit. Like it’s sprained and inflamed and all the shit she just nagged me about.

“Fine,” I say. “It feels fine. My foot is killing me though.”

I fall back onto her bed and prop my foot up onto the footboard. Alright, so I can’t escape out the window in my boxers. If I really need some R&R, then I might as well have some fun while I’m at it.

“Feels like the blood isn’t flowing, probably cut off from all the inflammation. I’d rub it, but I can’t bend far enough with my leg like this. A massage would help.”

She pulls up a chair from the wall and sits at the foot of the bed. She puts her hands onto my ankle and squeezes. She rotates my ankle slightly back and forth to examine my foot. Her eyebrows scrunch up, and I bite my lip to suppress a grin.

Her soft hands slide down to the side of my foot, and she pushes gently with her thumbs. “Do you feel that? Does it feel numb.”

I put my hands up, behind my head, and I lean back to enjoy the massage. “Keep going.”

She presses into my foot with her fingers, moving in a circular motion. She lifts my ankle with one hand while massaging the foot in the other. Her hand on my ankle presses warm against my muscular calf.

Fuck that feels good. And it’s not just the physical feeling, it’s that fire that ignites in my chest every time the woman looks at me. It’s gotta just be lust, right? Yeah, nothing more than that.

She works her fingers into the sole of my foot, pressing in and working up toward my toes. When she reaches my toes, she works them one by one, massaging up from the base to the end, as if trying to work the blood all the way through.

I start to laugh.

“What’s funny?” She asks. “Am I tickling you?”

“My feet are fine,” I say. “I just can’t believe I got you to massage my foot.”

She lets go of my foot, but she’s still holding my calf in her other hand.

I point toward her hand, “It does feel good though. I mean, it’s helping the pain.”

“You…” she stammers, “You want me to massage your leg?”

“Only if it’s medically necessary,” I say, licking my lips.

I look down toward my boxers, and I the outline of my semi-hard cock twitches.

She looks up right at it, her eyes widening in surprise. Then she looks at me, and her cheeks flush red. She looks right down at my cock again, which is only getting harder now, and her gaze lingers until she finally breaks away.

She coughs, and I grab the blanket and cover myself. As much as I like those big innocent eyes on my cock, I’ve decided I’m not going to stay here. Having sex with her would be a complicated mess, and if Napier found out that she cared about me at all, he’d use her against me.

“Massaging the leg,” she says, her voice almost cracking from embarrassment, “Would actually reduce inflammation and promote healing. I’d be gentle.”

I nod slightly. Of course she’d be gentle. Everything about her is gentle. Feeling her gentle touch any more than I already have is a bad idea. She’s already convincing me that I should stay here. That it’s the best option for me.

It is the best option for me, but it’s not for her. As soon as I can walk, I’ll go.