With Roscoe’s back now to her, Nicole set to work. She meticulously cleaned the lacerations with iodine, applied clotting agents, and began to wrap the gauze around his torso.
Nicole’s delicate touch seemed to cause Roscoe to stiffen, a sign that such care was foreign to him.
After Nicole finished with the bandage, Roscoe donned a white T-shirt hastily.
Nicole, in a moment of boldness, caught his hand, her question piercing the silence. “Roscoe, is it me that you want?”
The interplay of light and shadow in the room highlighted the clean lines of Roscoe’s face, a stark contrast to the charged atmosphere between them.
Nicole’s voice, barely above a whisper, carried an undeniable allure as she leaned in close. “I’m here, ready to be yours. Is that what you desire?”
Nicole couldn’t bring herself to accept his sacrifice and selflessness. The thought of easing her conscience through such an exchange crossed her mind, acknowledging her own fears of his genuine, unguarded feelings.
She knew it was folly, trying to awaken him from what she saw as a pointless pursuit with the bait of her own charm.
With a natural magnetism that needed no enhancement from cosmetics, Nicole’s eyes held their own power. Her appeal was undeniable, potent even, and for someone like Roscoe, who seemed so unversed in matters of the heart, it could prove overwhelming.
Pressing for an answer, Nicole challenged the very foundation of Roscoe’s actions. “Is this you’ve been striving for?”
Roscoe’s expression shifted into one of icy detachment, his demeanor chilling as expected.
Nicole, trying to ignore the ache spreading through her chest, pressed on. “Roscoe, I can be yours tonight, but it comes with a condition. We end this afterward.”
Gone was the naivety of youth from Roscoe’s features. He regarded her with a discernment honed by experience.
When he met her gaze, a laugh broke from him, unexpected and jarring.
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“Alright, let’s do it,” he agreed, surprising her.
A ripple of panic washed over Nicole. The man before her was an enigma, changed from the Roscoe she once knew.
Despite the shift, Nicole maintained her poise, her hand curving around the nape of his neck, her facade unwavering.
They found themselves locked in a tacit standoff, each waiting for the other to concede defeat first.
Roscoe’s stubbornness matched her own. His frustration was palpable.
He caught her hand firmly, pinning it against the wall, his proximity closing in, his tone roughened. “Nicole…”
The way he uttered her name was undeniably charged, a daring move in their tense exchange.
Nicole willed her nerves into submission, seeking an inner tranquility. She held onto a sliver of certainty amid the tension.
Roscoe, in spite of his ire, would not hurt her. Yet, she dared not reveal her apprehension.
Roscoe’s eyes, a gravity unto themselves, held her gaze, his breath mingling with the air between them.