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Walls.
He stopped long enough to put our dinner in the oven, then went back to cleaning.
When he came over to the couch with his spray, I gave him a warning look. “I don’t think you’re supposed to use that on fabric.”
“It’ll survive.”
Without further ado, he sprayed it, wiping at it pointlessly—and roughly—with his towel.
I eyed him as his hands and spray bottle neared my backside.
My body ached too much to get up. He’d just have to go around me.
My ass was probably wet with sweat, too. I was so damn miserable.
August didn’t so much as pause, though. He dropped his spray bottle and towel on the couch in one motion, and scooped me and my computer up into his arms in another.
I would’ve protested, if the motion hadn’t put his skin on mine.
In less than a heartbeat, all the soreness in my muscles vanished.
The warmth, too.
Instead of setting me down on the floor or the wet part of the couch, he narrowed his eyes at me. “You’re sweating.”
He’d felt the sweat on the backs of my thighs.
Well, that was embarrassing.
“I’m fine,” I said.
Was I blushing?
Yup.
Blushing hard.
Why had society made sweat such a taboo thing? Everyone sweats!
Then again, most people didn’t sweat in an air-conditioned room in the middle of the mountains.
That was all heat’s doing.
The butt sweat, the thigh sweat, the underboob sweat… shudder.
“I didn’t ask if you were okay. I said you’re sweating.”
“You sent me into heat, remember? Pretty sure heat equals sweating.”
“It does. But if you’re feeling symptoms, you need to tell me. I can’t feel what you’re feeling. I don’t know if you’re hot, or in pain.”
“I told you, I’m fine. You don’t need to hold me like this.”
He scowled, but carried me into the kitchen and set me down at the table. “When you get hot or start feeling pain, say something.”
“Alright.”
It wasn’t the truth.
