“No, doesn’t seem like it,” he said, moving his hand to the back of my neck. “You’re a little warm, though. Want me to turn the heat down some more?”
“No. It’s cool enough in here.”
“But if you’re overheating…”
Maybe if he hadn’t sat down at the edge of the cushion with his body all pressed against my legs, I wouldn’t be overheating.
“I’m okay.”
“Maybe you just need to get some rest. How about I bring you to the bathroom to wash up, then you head to bed? It’s been a day.”
It was probably evidence of something fundamentally wrong with me mentally, but I overall had a pretty nice day. Sure, there’d been pain and some guilt about Tuna not being taken care of when I’d been spaced out. But I had Christopher storm into my life to take charge. He got Tuna sorted, saw to cleaning me up, helped me get dressed…
The memory that had been buried somewhere beneath all the craziness of the day sprang back to the forefront of my mind.
Christopher. On his knees. Sliding my panties up my legs. That look in his eyes I knew was heat, even if he would never admit it. Like his mind was exactly where mine had been right at that moment.
“You’re getting even more flushed. Maybe I need to take your temperature.”
Before I could object (as if I was going to do such a thing), he had me scooped up in his arms and was walking me into the bathroom.
He set me on the counter before rummaging around and coming back with a temporal thermometer.
“Normal.” His brows furrowed. “Maybe it’s not working.”
“Chris?”
“Mm?” He was only half paying attention as he glowered at the thermometer.
“I don’t have a fever.”
“You’re really pink,” he said, setting down the thermometer with a sigh and focusing on my face.
“And it’s not from a fever.”
“The meds?” he asked.
“No. I don’t feel those anymore.”
“Then what?”
I shook my head at him and reached down to glide a fingertip up his forearm.
“Your slutty sleeves, that’s what.”
“My what?” He screwed up his brows, watching me like he thought I really had lost it. That not only did I likely have a fever, but it was high enough for me to be hallucinating or something like that.
“Your slutty sleeves. Well, I guess the sleeves themselves aren’t slutty. It’s the way they’re rolled up and the arms that are exposed.”
I watched realization dawn with a slow, cocky smirk on his lips.
“Really? Forearms are doing it for you? Been a while, huh?”
“I know. It’s stupid. I feel like a man from the 1800s who lost his mind over seeing a flash of ankle.”
“Losing your mind, huh?” he asked, his voice taking on that deep, raspy timber that came with interest, with attraction.
“Yeah. That whole wiping the table down thing was really doing it for me.”
