Freed and Filled

Chapter 7 - Harlie

I don't know where to start. There's just so much of him.

Heat swamps me as I feast my eyes on his impressive form. If only he weren't so big everywhere, then maybe this wouldn't be so terrifying, but if the bulge in his underwear is any indication, then there's no way we'd work.

I kick myself for being so ridiculous. Now is neither the time nor the place to imagine intercourse, especially with such a magnificent and terrifying beast. Sucking in a steadying breath, I focus on his chest.

The warmth drains from me as I study his wounds.

I set the washcloth back into the bowl, hiding a grimace as the slightly slimy liquid drips from my fingertips. Hopefully, a disinfectant or quick healing substance makes it thick and not something less desirable.

Before I even fully regain my balance, I reach for the first bandage on his forearm and carefully peel it off, knowing I'll lose my nerve if I don't just get it done.

The first three come off fairly easily despite the thick, dark fur covering his forearms, but when I rise on tiptoe to remove the one on his bicep, the top half refuses to release his longer fur.

"I'm sorry, this is going to sting," I say.

"Most good things do," he retorts.

My stomach does funny things, but I don't know if it's because of the blood or his rich voice. Memories threaten to ruin my concentration, but I hold them back and rip the bandage off.

He doesn't even flinch.

I remove the others as fast as I can, definite queasiness settling in as each square of gauze lands on the tray with a squish. The amount of blood saturating them twists my guts with worry.

I shut my mind off as best I can and clean his chest first, hot and cold waves barreling through me as I see the extent of his wounds.

The staples along his sternum hold together torn, angry, bright red flesh. Heat emanates off him. Whatever they did to him, his body needs time to recover. I refill the washcloth, glad when it proves to be some kind of synthetic material. It soaks up impurities—his blood—and releases whatever cleaning agent they included in the liquid, so when I wring it out, the water in the bowl doesn't turn an ugly brown.

His arms aren't much better. Emotions well within me as I realize how deep the round punctures are.

Gunshot wounds. He was shot many, many times.

How is he still alive?

I glance up and nearly melt into the floor. He studies me too intently.

Pleasure sparks in my soul. I've never wanted to be the center of someone's attention as much as I do his.

That same stretching sensation from when I first met him begins, reaching for the organ pumping behind his sternum.

No other male has ever affected me this way. Is it some animal magnetism in his genes? Would any female react this way?

The thought deflates the hope I didn't realize I harbored. I push away my musings, rinse the washcloth, and move to his back.

My head hurts from my bulging eyes when I see his tail. I don't know why it shocks me. Of course, he has a tail. Why would I assume he doesn't? Hyena ears, short snout, and fur all over his body kind of make a tail an obvious expectation.

I want to run my fingers through the tuft at the end, but I focus on his back instead.

He has fewer wounds on his pelt-covered back, so I swap fabric squares and start at his shoulders.