Deciding it’s better to be acabrónthan a coward, I lower my fists. Millie is glaring at me, her hands on her hips. But she’s holding her mouth tight, like she’s trying not to smile.
“Relax,” she says, giving in to the smile. “After all, I grabbed your pocket wrench last night.”
I choke again. “M-my pocket wrench?”
Millie wrinkles her nose. “That doesn’t really work does it? Power drill? Nail gun? I was trying to go for just the right construction penis pun.”
I convulse with laughter.“Santa Maria,you’re delirious.” I want to reach for her to check her fever, but I’m laughing too hard.
She shakes her head, laughing now too. “I feel like shit, but I’m not delirious.” She rubs her head, turns, and sits down on the edge of her bed. “I wanted to take a shower, but I don’t think I can stand up that long.”
Without warning, I picture helping her in the shower, holding her in my arms while she washes her hair, and the laughter dies.
She moans, but not the way I’m about to, and collapses back onto the mattress. I go to her, sit by her, and put a hand to her forehead. She’s hot. Still. How many days of fever does this make? Two? Three?
“Let’s get you to the doctor’s,” I say softly. Her eyes are closed. Unwilling to stop myself, I trace the pad of my middle finger over her eyebrows. Their cayenne color leaves me unprepared for such softness.
In a slow sweep, my finger moves across her smooth forehead.
You are so beautiful.
I run my finger along her hairline where the richest red meets the fairest white. She sighs with a contentment I feel through my whole being. Because she lets me, I trail my fingertip down the elegant slope of her nose to the ripe beauty of her mouth.
Would she let me kiss her again? If she lets me trace the outline of her lips, could I kiss her again?
My tongue tells the tip of my finger what to do. Touch her right at the seam so she knows I want in.
Her lashes flutter, her lids lifting just enough so I know she’s watching me. I feel my pulse everywhere. My chest. My throat. The back of my knees. The tip of my finger. I wonder if she can feel it too.
“What are you doing?” It’s not an accusation. She speaks softly in her hoarse voice, looking at me with just a hint of confusion.
I don’t take my hand away. She can feel me. I want her to feel me.
“Planning to kiss you.”
Her brows lift lazily. “But I’m sick.”
“I still want to kiss you,” I say with a shrug. She could have the plague and I’d want to kiss her. We still need to talk, but last night changed things. If nothing else, last night changed me. What I think is possible. And what isn’t. Like not kissing her again.
I take her silence as assent, dip my hand to her chin, and tilt it up for me, giving her plenty of time to protest.
She doesn’t.
Leaning over her, I brush my lips over hers. Softly. Patiently. Reverently. She is still sick. I’m not going to ask for too much or take advantage. Just let her know where my head is.
Where my heart is.
I press my mouth to hers, and Millie’s breath catches. It’s just my lips against hers. It should feel chaste. Tame. Instead, it feels like driving a Tesla. My blood goes from zero to sixty in 1.9 seconds. And when she touches my face, it’s like I’ve upgraded to one of Elon Musk’s rocket launchers.
And all of this velocity and heat is trapped within the borders of my skin, only allowed to pass into her where we touch. Lips. Hands. Faces.
Not enough.
My tongue is about to seek permission to call on hers when I hear athump.Millie stiffens beneath me.
Thump-thump-thump.
“Shit,” she mutters against my mouth, her other hand flattening against my chest. “They’re up.”
