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CHAPTER5
The scream hurtled into Oliver’s brain like a bolt.
He’d literally just stepped out of his study to go and make himself a whisky—after all it was five o’clock, a perfectly civilised time to have one—so there had only been her bedroom door between him and the scream.
It was the kind of howl that curdled your blood and made you forget your bloody manners. In seconds he’d sprinted the distance back along the corridor and burst through the door of her room. Seeing no-one in the bedroom he’d halted for a bare second, ears finely tuned until he heard a little whimper from the bathroom.
In the doorway, he ground to a momentary halt.
Slender legs and arms lay in a strangely distorted mess in the shower alcove, one arm over her face, which meant a perfect round breast and a rosy pink nipple pointed straight at him.
Her towel was semi draped over her and then she shifted and he caught sight of a long deep scar travelling the length of her thigh just above her left knee.
“Jesus Christ. Are you okay?”
Stupid question.
Her body froze and the sound stopped. And then she scrabbled backwards so fast she almost looked like she’d levitate up the walls. Huge blue eyes stared back at him as she snapped her arms across her naked breasts.
A flash of bright red pubes between her thighs.
He needed to cover her up.
He grabbed the towel.
“Noooooo!” she howled as he attempted to hand it to her.
“What’s happened? Tell me.”
“Spi-deerrrr.” She was hyperventilating. “It’s here—I don’t know where—it could be on the towel—” Now her teeth were chattering. “Get me out of here—please.”
She was beside herself with fear. Beyond acting autonomously.
There was nothing for it.
Oliver stepped into the shower and gathered Felicity’s wet and shaking body into his arms.
Her eyes were squeezed shut, her mouth puckered tight. She was as light as a feather, her skin so pale it was almost translucent, with the lightest dusting of freckles across her shoulders, like cinnamon sugar. One of her breasts pressed against his pecs. He tried to ignore all of it. Tried not to look as he strode purposefully out of the bathroom.
She whispered hoarsely, “Is the spider on me? Please, you have to check.”
For pity fuck’s sake… this meant he’d have to look at her again.
He tried to look and not look. As any poor bastard stuck in such a conundrum would know, it was an impossible combination.
He couldn’t see a spider… but what he did see were her nipples poking up at him like tight pink rosebuds, the gentle swell of her belly and that long angry scar on her thigh. He felt the curve of her butt in the crook of his arm, smelt flowery shampoo and warm clean wet woman. It all burnt into his senses, overpowering them.
A sensation seeped low in his belly, swirled alarmingly into his groin as he laid her on the bed. “No spider sighted,” he gritted out.
This. Could. Not. Be. Happening.
After months of zero action, to the extent he was certain his brain and genitals had been permanently uncoupled, his cock had decided to hustle its way back to life.
At the most inappropriate moment.
Sweet Jesus, get me out of here.
He kept his head averted as he tugged the coverlet from the bed and handed it to her. Subtly re-adjusted himself and tried to focus on the spider issue.
