1/2
Rodeo wants to prompt her to extrapolate on what she means by "well, you know." He wants to play dumb, say he doesn't quite know, maybe she ought to tell him all about it. But he doubts she'd be willing to actually delve into the details and he's not really sure such a topic of conversation would be a safe one to have when he's sitting next to her in a very unforgiving pair of underwear, already trying not to let his mind stray anywhere that might cause a bodily reaction. Because no matter how blue his heart is with longing for her, no matter how much he hurts and aches and anguishes over it all, the desire is still there and it don't feel cooled down any by all that hurt. He's not really convinced the feeling is mutual-- he's pretty sure somebody told him once that a woman's lust is irrevocably tied to her heart, and he's not sure how true that is but it sounds like it might be true. If it is, Rodeo can only imagine she looks at him and can't quite remember why she ever wanted him at all.
But when he thinks of what could have been, when those fantasies take hold of his mind, it's not really just sex the way these things have always been for him. He couldn't even count the number of girls who have came and went in his bed, but none of them ever lingered in his mind or showed up to star in reoccurring roles in his lonely night fantasies. Only Lita could claim that distinction, and Rodeo doesn't have to scour his mind much for the reason why. His attraction to Lita is more powerful than anything he's ever known, because it's more than just the physical that he wants-- and when he envisions what it would be like to be with her, all he's got to do is remember what it felt like kissing her against that bookshelf that night in the library. The unmatched intensity of what he felt then, the wanting so complete that it consumed him inside and out. That's what he imagined it would be like, and this-- whatever you could call this, it ain't even close.
Lita warns that it's going to hurt, tells him to say so if he needs her to stop, hell, even warns him that her hands might be cold, and he has to laugh. It's rough, low in his throat, and he shakes his head and sits back a little so he's not blocking the dim light from the only lamp in his room. "Sweetheart, don't you worry about me. I promise I've had it worse." The angry raised scars on his back from the last time a knife got the better of him are evidence enough of that. Though the gash on his leg might be deep, it's no worse than a hundred other injuries he's had in his lifetime. No matter what Lita thinks, she ain't just here because he needs some stitches. He's treated injuries like this before with tape and glue and they've healed up alright, and he has no doubt that he'd manage to patch this one up himself without her help. But she's the one who insisted on looking at it and he ain't fool enough to turn down an excuse to have her close for a moment, so he lets her work if that's what she needs to do to be here.