Page 67 of Burn the Script

“The water will loosen you up and make you feel better.”

I dragged the blankets off him. He groaned with every movement until his feet touched the floor. Once he was standing, I held him steady while he shuffled to the dim bathroom. Candles flickered on a shelf above the oval tub, and the scent of coconut and eucalyptus bath salts filled the room. The mood would’ve been romantic if not for the fatigue making him sway.

I untied his pajama pants and dragged them down his legs, then helped him into the tub. Moaning, he sunk low into the warm water. His eyelids were barely open, head laid back, as he watched me shed my clothes and fold them neatly on the vanity bench. I joined him, sitting face to face with my legs crisscrossed between his bent knees

When I reached for a bottle on the ledge, he asked, “What are you doing?”

I coated my hands with shaving cream and spread it on his face and neck, and his muscles loosened under my touch. “You look like a mountain man.”

“I’m from Colorado.”

“Doesn’t matter. Unless it’s for a movie or retirement, facial hair isn’t allowed. It irritates my sensitive skin.”

“On your thighs,” he murmured. His sickly rasp was the furthest thing from seductive, but he smiled prettily anyway.

“Yes, on my thighs. And everywhere else.” I dipped my hands in the water to rinse them.

“You’d love living in the mountains. We could go on long hikes and take pictures of the wildlife. Swim naked in a stream.”

“You have a wild imagination. Turn your head.”

The stubble on his face hadn’t grown long enough to break out the trimmers, so I attacked it with a razor. While I worked, his droopy gaze explored my bare torso, soon joined by a finger that glided through the hair on my chest and brushed my nipples.

“I want to suck on these.”

“Once you feel better and brush your teeth, you can do whatever you want to me.”

“We haven’t had sex in days,” he whined. “I’ve been severely neglected.”

“An unfortunate consequence when you skip your appointment for a flu shot.”

His bottom lip got trapped between his teeth, and my belly button became the center of his attention. He drew circles around it, sending direct shots of arousal to my cock. But I remained steadfast in my mission as the razor scraped against his flesh.

Between the rhythmic rise of his chest and the way he stared, he looked caught in a trance. If he felt better, his attempts to distract me would’ve paid off. The lukewarm bath would have become a steamy one.

His hand journeyed lower, disappearing into the milky water. “You’re the sexiest man I’ve ever met. So caring and sweet.”

“Stop playing with my dick. I have a blade at your throat.”

“I’m gonna marry you,” he whispered.

My breath hitched. The razor paused mid-stroke. I zeroed in on his jaw, waiting for a bead of blood to appear, but it never came. I continued with the task. “That’s the fever talking.”

“It’s not. You take good care of me, even when I’m not sick. The house is cozy, you buy my favorite cereal even though you think it’s gross, and my clothes don’t have wrinkles.”

“You make me sound like a house husband.”

“You could be, if that’s what you wanted.”

“I want a partner, not a provider.” Our eyes met briefly before I tapped his chin, urging him to turn his head the other way.

“Why not have both? Marry me, Miguel. We could move somewhere remote. Buy land and build a house. Start a family. We both want kids before we’re forty, and you’re older than me. Time is running out.”

I would turn forty in eight years. We had plenty of time, but Graham moved quickly when he set his mind on something, never thinking of consequences or weighing risk factors. Act now; fix the problems if they come. It was how he operated. His impulsiveness was one of my favorite things about him but also the greatest source of contention between us.

“You’re not ready for marriage.”

His eyebrows pinched together. “What makes you say that?”