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“Do you have pajamas?”
She slides a hand under her pillow and half-heartedly tugs on something until a bit of fabric sticks out.
I pull it the rest of the way and reveal an oversized gray T-shirt with the words “Planners Gonna Plan” across the chest. You have to admire a woman who knows herself.
I look down at the crumpled person on the bed. “You sure didn’t plan for this, did you?”
“No,” she says with surprising clarity, eyes still closed.
Right, well, there’s no way in hell I’m taking her bra off, and I’m not sure I’m comfortable tackling the skirt.
One step at a time.
“I’m going to put this over your head, okay?”
“That’s nice.” Her mouth curls up a bit at both corners, and it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
This must be what she looks like when she wakes up in the morning. But without the smudged makeup and the vomitty aroma.
She silently eases her head up just enough for me to slip the T-shirt over it.
“Great. Now can you put your arms through?”
She fumbles around, eyes opening the tiniest crack, jabbing not even close to the arm holes.
“Let me help.” I take gentle hold of one wrist, and she gives the whole weight of her arm to me. I pause for a second, her pulse beating beneath my fingers.
I guide her arm into the sleeve, then repeat on the other side. She surrenders completely, allowing me to move her body wherever it needs to be. That’s trust. Also sickness, fever, and confusion. But it’s still trust.
My desire to take care of her merges with the other sort of desire. They’re a heady, unique combination.
I pull the shirt down so it covers her breasts. That’s a relief, because now is the most inappropriate time to be distracted by their round fullness or the pink nipples peeking through the lace.
“You’d be much more comfortable with that skirt off. Can you manage it?”
“Uuurgh. You do it,” she mumbles, wiggling in slow motion.
Again, under any other circumstances, Charlotte asking me to remove her skirt would be like all my hottest fantasies and best Christmases being delivered at once. But right now, I just need to get her out of it, tucked in, and sleeping this thing off.
“Okay.” I take a long, slow, deep breath, then blow it out. “Can you lift your butt?”
She plants her feet on the mattress and rocks her hips up. Fuck, it’s hard not to think inappropriate thoughts, but not-think them, I must.
I wrap my arms around her waist and feel for the skirt’s opening. There it is, in the middle of her back. I pop the button and slide the zipper down over the curve of her butt.
“I’m going to take this off, okay?”
She nods, her heavy eyelids falling fully shut.
I yank down the T-shirt that’s so big it comes below her knees and covers everything I’ve spent years wanting to see, then pull on the hem of the skirt until the waistband emerges below the shirt, skims over the knees that were earlier coated in barf, glides down her smooth, bare calves, and reaches her ankles.
“Feet up.”
She drops her butt back to the mattress and lifts her feet, allowing me to slide the skirt off completely.
“There you go.” I hold it in the air like a flag.
Mission accomplished. Skirt removed, and no underwear, nor even a glimpse of upper thigh, was spotted.
