ROSS CAMERON
Susan's face, a mixture of concern and suppressed amusement, appeared inches above his.
"This. Isn't. Funny."
"No, no," she agreed too quickly. "Definitely not funny. Are you okay?"
His ability to take regular breaths was returning. He gulped in some air. "I'm. Not. Moving."
"Gotcha. Um, I took First Aid. If you're conscious, I'm supposed to ask you if you need help."
"Psychiatrist. Need my head examined."
"I'm not qualified to diagnosis mental conditions. But I know how to check for broken bones." She took off the jacket, balled it up, and placed it under his head. Then she leaned over him, allowing a nice view of cleavage. Thank God for V-necked sweaters. Her scent, that intoxicating mixture of roses and Susan, infiltrated his senses. He wanted to grab her and kiss her senseless, but he wasn't sure he could lift his arms right now. Besides, it was somehow erotic to lay helpless under her tender administrations.
