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Stifled by the heat surrounding me, I roll away, only to be met with the sensation of damp coolness down the front of my body.
“Flynn,” I groan, turning my heavy head in his direction.
Wetness dots his brow, his temples soaked with sweat.
He groans, his eyes slitting open.
“Your fever broke.”
He nods, his face screwing up with the action. “I feel disgusting. Sorry I sweated on you.”
I want to laugh at the ridiculousness of his concern, but I’m too damn tired to muster the energy to do so.
He doesn’t reach for me when I climb out of the bed, but I feel his eyes track me to the bathroom. If he was in desperate need of a shower before, that has been multiplied by a thousand now. Not having the energy to offer him help, I wet a couple wash rags with warm water and make my way back out to him.
A grin tugs up the corners of his mouth as he watches me walk back into the room. “A sponge bath?”
A weak grin of my own is all I can manage.
“Try not to get too turned on.” I say it as a joke, but his eyes dart away from me.
He scoots, giving me room beside him on the bed, groaning in relief when I swipe the first washcloth over his forehead and down his face. His neck is next, and my mouth hangs open a little when he turns his head, revealing the corded muscle. His eyes are closed, teeth digging into his lower lip when he leans forward and pulls his shirt over the top of his head.
He’s given his permission, but I still feel like I’m violating him in some way when the washcloth traces down his sternum. Abdominal muscles bunch and jump under the attention, and it’s impossible to tell if it’s to get more from me or if they’re trying to get away.
I lick at my own lips, uncaring of the reason as I continue to wipe away the fever and salt from his skin. This entire situation is weird, a surreal reenactment of the dreams my subconscious self has had the last couple of days. It leaves me feeling dangerous and out of control, two things I’ve learned are triggers for bad behavior.
He arches toward my hand, his hip rolling forward in the most tantalizing way, and that’s my cue for distance.
“Get some more sleep,” I tell him, standing abruptly and walking out of the room.
I don’t look over my shoulder to check on him one last time before leaving the room. He’s through the worst part of his illness, and the entire thing has left me feeling raw and exposed. I liked the cuddling too much. I liked the things he whispered too much. I like the idea of him being mine too much.
All of that leaves me vulnerable and open for more rejection, more disappointment, and I’m way too tired to deal with any of that right now.Chapter 11Flynn
I’ve been shot three times wearing a bulletproof vest, the bullets leaving fist-sized bruises on my torso, and even that didn’t feel as bad as I feel when I wake up.
I’m met with silence in an unfamiliar room, disoriented like the single time I got wasted in college. I know I’ve been sick. I know Remington took care of me even though she had no responsibility to do so. I know I’ve been in and out of consciousness for days. I know I scared her away when all she was trying to do was help me.
I’m such an idiot for being unable to control my reaction to her hand running that cloth over my body. Even sick, I was aroused. Even feeling like I’d been run over several times, I would’ve given it the old college try to get her under me. I offended her but was too out of it to follow her and apologize.
She’s not in bed beside me, and I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep. Knowing her, she took off the second she walked out of here.
With sore, aching muscles, I climb out of the bed, taking care of business in the bathroom. The shower calls to me, but the need to find her looms heavier.
I expect to find an empty suite as I walk through the rooms slowly, but there on the couch, curled up in a tiny ball is the woman I thought for sure had bolted. I want to go to her, to scoop her up and carry her back to the bed, but that would be a violation. She promised me she wouldn’t leave, and even though she kept that promise, it’s clear she also wants distance.
Hating that I’ll have to put dirty clothes back on but knowing I’m absolutely disgusting; I head back to the bathroom. I swallow thick emotions when I see a clean pile of clothing on the towels in the linen closet. They’re my clothes, the familiar lounge pants and t-shirt perfectly worn and comfortable, meaning she had to have either left the suite or had them delivered. A small bag of cosmetics and another pile of fresh laundry is beside mine, and it makes me doubt all the certainties that Remington Blair is a selfish, immature person, only thinking of herself.
