She shrugged one shoulder and fell to her knees in the bracket of my spread thighs to get close to the stab wound. It leaked blood down my left side into the growin’ stain at the waistband of my jeans. The sight of her down there made me irrationally irritated. “I said I can do it,” I growled, grabbin’ her wrist as she made to stitch me up. “Get up from there.” “No.” She wrenched her hand away and flashed me a look so cold with determination it chilled me. “Even big, bad bikers need someone to take care of them sometimes.”
