Got Bruises On My Knees For You นิยาย & เรื่องราว

As one man explained to his family the past events that had caused him much more trouble than he had bargained for, his spawn had gotten herself into mess of her own. Within the Lion King private training room, Kylie was sprawled all over the floor. She took short tiring breaths as sweat streamed down her hair and onto her face. Her entire body was wet with her sweat, and her palms were bruised and calloused.

The knock on the door was soft. “Who's there?." Blue asked. Kylee opened the door and walked in. She was dressed in a black knee length skirt that had a slit at the side and a pale pink chiffon blouse. “We're going to the hospital, get dressed." She said authoritatively. Blue climbed down from the bed and walked to the mirror. She didn't have any bruises, I on the other hand was beaten up. My lip had a cut at the side, my face had blotches of blue black marks. My temple had a cut and it was swelling, if not for the doctor that came yesterday, I would have been swelling in different parts of my body.

It was pure chaos. Thankfully, I didn’t sustain any serous injuries when I was pushed down to the ground. I had a few minor scratches here and there on my hands, arms, and my knees but it wasn’t major. With some basic medicine, the cuts will heal in no time, and I’ll suffer some bruises but that’s about it. I would count myself as very lucky given the situation that I was in.

I mean, mine isn't much better but still. "Hey. Um, I'm going to warm up." They all nodded and added 'me too'. I took off my jacket and was left in my black shorts and bright red sports bra. "Cobra, what the Hell? You didn't tell me it was this bad!" I saw Slasher walking towards me. "What are you talking about?" He pulled my arm to the side, and I remembered. I had completely forgotten about it with everything going on right now. "This huge ass bruise. What the fuck happened?" He all but screamed, catching the attention of everyone around us.

The man must have the work ethic of a person on steroids for crying out loud. As I round the corner, I stop abruptly, the tower of a man in front of me stopping me in my tracks. I look at him from his feet, they are clad in brown leather shoes whose shine screams of nithing but luxury, his midnight blue suit pants look neatly ironed, and expensively tailored as his straight legs make them fit perfectly. Next, I move on to his hands, his knuckles have a small tattoo on them, something I am sure is not meant for people to see, from how small it is, but things rarely pass my attention.

> Khyle had said something about his bruises. _*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> In the middle of the locker room confrontation, buried under the legitimate grievances and the illegitimate ones and the several things they had both said that were going to require some eventual reckoning, Khyle had mentioned his bruises. Not in a clinical way, not as a tactical observation about a player's performance capacity. He had said it the way someone said it when they had been paying attention. When they had been watching and noticing and quietly tracking the accumulation of damage with the specific concern of someone who was not entirely indifferent to the welfare of the person wearing it.

I set the kit on the bed beside him and knelt down on the floor, in the same position I had been before. His leg was still outstretched, waiting. I rolled up the fabric of his pant leg, exposing the swollen knee. It was bruised, purpling around the joint. I gently touched the skin, feeling for damage. He hissed slightly at the pressure, but didn’t pull away. “Sorry,” I murmured, not looking up. “Don’t be,” he said, his voice low. “It needs to be done.” Nodding, then continuing my examination. His leg was solid, the muscles hard under my fingers.

Without warning, I smacked his bare knee , the only spot on him that wasn’t covered in bruises or white wraps. “Ouch! What the hell was that for?” he yelled, his face twisting in pain as he rubbed his knee. “What were you thinking?” I snapped, my voice low but burning with anger. “I heard you were Riding like a madman through the city? What were you trying to prove, huh? Were you trying to get yourself killed? Did it ever cross your mind how worried I’d be?”

Killian. He was curled on his side, one arm draped loosely over his ribs. His skin was too pale, the skin under his eyes sunken and bruised. His lips were dry and cracked, his damp hair matted at the temples. His long lashes fluttered weakly as he breathed, as if every inhale was a fight against an invisible force. There were bruises on his skin. Faint finger marks on his neck. Angry red punctures dotting his arms. An old cut was stitched shut at his side, the skin around it puckered and inflamed. It must've reopened.

"What can you take, Rebecca?" I didn't answer, just closed my eyes, loosened my throat muscles, and took his cock deep. "Fuck." And I did. We barely slept that night. I woke up the following morning feeling decidedly achy in all the right places. Black and blue bruising covered Killian's lower side and I forgot my small discomfort. "Don't worry about it, Legs. Just bruising." "How do you know?" My anger at the Seattle player rose again. Killian kissed my fingers and placed them against his injury. "Because I've had broken ribs before and this is nothing. I know I would feel better if you kissed them all better, though."