I laughed. “Because we practically lived together for two years, Ax. You always left your socks on the floor. Now, we’d better take care of these ribs.” I slid my hand under his shirt and put my hand over the cold skin of his left rib cage, and he let out a low moan. “Sorry, did I hurt you?” I asked, trying to pull my hand away.

“No.” His gaze was hot on mine as he stopped my regress with one big hand.

“You made a noise.” I blinked stupidly up at him.

He leaned toward me and said in a low voice, “There are other things that can make a man moan besides physical pain, Blaire.”

Oh, holy hotness! I swallowed what felt like a gallon of saliva, my fingers flexing involuntarily against his rapidly warming skin.

I needed to get his ribs wrapped and get the fuck away from Axel Broxton. My respiration rate was way too high, and Ax noticed, his lips tipping up at the edges. Sexy, cocky bastard. “We, uh, need to get your shirt off.”

“About damn time,” he growled.

“Ax, stop it,” I warned, and he smirked. “Do you need help getting it off?”

“I would love help getting off,” he said with a cheesy grin. Damn, he was flirty today.

“You ass,” I said, trying to sound stern but unable to hold in my laughter. He reached behind his neck with his right hand and pulled his shirt off.

Dear Lord in heaven. Axel had always had a big, hard body, but now—five years later—he had the body of a fucking sex god. His broad chest was the most sculpted, masculine thing I had ever seen, and his eight-pack abs were effing ridiculous. No, seriously. Fucking insane. Thick, hard ridges were covered by tan skin and dark hair. Not to mention those sexy V muscles that assured you would be getting fucked extremely thoroughly. Axel Broxton was utterly lickable.

You’re not here to lick or ogle, Blaire. Do your fucking job.

In school, they had taught us not to react to injuries in front of patients, but as I looked at his side, I had to work hard to suppress a gasp at the bruising there. It looked like he had gone ten rounds with Evander Holyfield, the skin mottled with red and blue bruises. “How far down do these bruises go?” I asked, folding down the waistband of his shorts to look at his hip.

“Only one way to find out,” he said, standing and pulling down his shorts.

Fucking hell. He was wearing blue boxer briefs, and he was sporting a hard, thick erection behind the thin layer of fabric. There was a damp spot where his pre-ejaculate had leaked out, and my panties got wet in response to the smell of hot, aroused male. That is not what you’re supposed to be looking at, you skanky ho.