A Bad Boy in my life

Thirty seven

Please have mercy on me
Take it easy on my heart
Even though you don't mean to hurt me
You keep tearing me apart

Mercy — Shawn Mendes

POV: MAXON

Have you ever held onto something you never wanted to let go of? Something you wished to have in your hands forever, never letting it slip away?

I used to feel that way when I held the handlebars of my motorcycle while riding. The exhilarating sensation of gripping something so tightly that it feels like no force in the world could pry it away. But you know what's even better? When that thing you hold onto holds onto you back.

With her arms wrapped around my neck and her face just inches away from mine, the desire to cling to her is even stronger, as is the intoxicating arousal that pulses through my veins.

Are we still in that hotel room?

The decision to kiss her or not shouldn't be this agonizing. My gaze shouldn't dart between her eyes and her lips, consumed by the tempting idea of our tongues entwining, mingling our passion and desire in a forbidden dance.

But this isn't a difficult decision; it's an utterly and unequivocally... foolish decision.

Not only would she regret it later, but it would also leave physical marks on my face, reminders of a mistake that would haunt us both. Avoiding that would be best for our relationship and my unblemished facade.

So, just as I'm about to release her from my arms, she reacts swiftly, her hand pressing against my nose, forcefully pushing me back as if we were engaged in a Muay Thai bout.

"Ouch!" I stagger backward, a hand instinctively reaching to soothe the stinging ache on my cheek.

"The shortness of breath must have improved, right?" she quips, a mix of concern and guilt etching lines on her face.

The bandage beneath my eye comes loose from the impact, adding insult to injury.

"Did you have to break my nose?" I grumble, wiping away the trickle of blood that mingles with my saliva. "Damn."

While I wince in pain, a flicker of remorse flickers in her eyes.

"Sorry. I didn't..." Her words dissipate into thin air, swallowed by the charged atmosphere.

I withdraw my hand from my nose and lock eyes with her.

Did she just apologize to me?

"Relax," I say, taking a step back to ease the tension. "Let me tend to it."

After assuring her that everything is under control, I wince as I resume the delicate task of nursing my battered nose.

"Don't touch it; it'll worsen the injury," she cautions, picking up my shirt from the floor. "You need to stop the bleeding. Like this."

Margo deftly folds the fabric and applies gentle pressure against my nose, displaying a surprising proficiency in injury treatment. Yet, the pain becomes a mere backdrop as I find myself captivated by her presence.

"Have you ever broken your nose?" I inquire, gingerly perched on a pouf, my face obscured by the makeshift compress she provided.

She shakes her head, a slight crease forming between her eyebrows, lending her a vulnerable yet captivating aura. Unbeknownst to her, she emanates beauty even in this moment.

"My father is a firefighter," she reveals, offering an explanation for her adeptness in handling injuries.

"Ah, that explains your impressive skills," I remark, stealing a glance at the cut on my face.