Chapter 3 #2
His gaze drops to fabric not much bigger than a facecloth, and I blurt, “He had the bath towels packed up and taken.” It’s a good thing I’m not Blake. This towel would have to wave a white flag. But it turns out the size of my towel isn’t what snags his attention.
Alasdair spots what a hot shower reactivated—the hives on my chest prickle, and I can’t help scratching.
He’s suddenly a whole lot closer.
“Ouch.” His fingertips hover over vivid blotches. “Let me take a closer look at these.”
Before I know it, I’m backed into the bathroom where the light is brighter. That’s where he gets even closer to study each welt and every scratch mark, and it’s where he gives me another order. “Turn around.”
I do, still clutching my tiny towel over my privates, and I can’t lie, I’ve braced against a bathroom wall and bared my arse for strangers once or twice. That was all part of figuring out what works for me, but this isn’t a hookup. I quickly turn around to face him. “My back’s fine.”
His hold on my shoulders is surprisingly firm.
So is the pressure he exerts. I’m not saying that he shoves me around—I’m too heavyset for someone slim like him to do that.
I’m just saying his soft yet stern eye contact tells me without words that he won’t take no for an answer.
So I do what he wants, bare arse regardless.
I turn, and he murmurs from so close that his warm breath coasts across my shoulder.
“Infections can set in before you know it.” His fingertips skim the thick meat of my delts.
My spine gets similarly studied, I guess, given how long it takes for his touch to move lower.
Each time his fingertips move in uneven circles, I guess he traces the outline of another raised patch, and he does it all in silence.
It’s the worst time in the world for my dick to take notice.
It wakes up from a winter-long hibernation all because someone I barely know pays close attention. Alasdair gives me all kinds of tingly feelings, and not just because he checks an allergic reaction.
He’s taking care.
Of me.
The crack in my voice echoes off Italian marble. “I can look after myself.” I clear my throat and hope this sounds less strangled. “I mean, I don’t need a nurse.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’ll never be one.
” His touch returns to where it started, high up on my shoulders.
“I’d need to get good grades in my Highers.
Passing those exams was never gonna happen, so I’m an in-home carer.
Was an in-home carer, I mean. One who still has bills to pay, so I’ve taken on some temp work in care homes until the end of the month. ”
“Then what?”
“Then I’ve got a full-time job waiting for me at home.”
“Doing what?”
“The same care work I’m doing here. Nothing too complicated, but I don’t need to be the brightest bulb in the box to make sure my clients are comfy.”
He’s admitting something I’ve been reminded of very recently, and I can’t hold back a shiver. It isn’t cold in this bathroom. If anything, that coincidental echo warms me. He still pauses to check in.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“These hives don’t agree.”
“They’re usual for me. Some antihistamine will sort it.”
“And I’m just saying that it’s scary how fast one little scratch can turn nasty.
Especially if you can’t see it and you work in less than sterile places.
” He’s still behind me when he clasps my shoulders, close enough that I feel his breath all over again.
“You look good.” He lets go of me in a hurry.
“I-I mean, your skin isn’t broken anywhere that I can see.
No sign of cellulitis. If you’re sure you only need antihistamine, Alice takes it for her hay fever.
” His voice abruptly thickens. “I mean, she used to take it.”
He must work hard to wrestle down his sadness—almost instantly, he’s bright and breezy again, which I might believe if I didn’t get a sideways glimpse of his damp gaze in the mirror.
He sniffs again. “If you want, I can check if there’s any left in her medicine cabinet?”
What I really want is for my cock to calm the fuck down.
I almost tell him that I can buy my own meds.
That I could have done it already, but the switch in his voice from clogged to clear means I say, “Yeah, okay” instead, reminded of when my own usefulness had served its purpose and how shitty that left me feeling.
Being needed still matters to him, so I tell him, “Go ahead, Alasdair. When we get to your place, you take a look for that antihistamine for me.”
I also hear that he’s made up his own mind.
About me.
I turn to see thankfully dry eyes and hear a request as soft as Highland heather.
“I will, if you start calling me Dair. That’s who I am to my friends.”
I told myself earlier that Alasdair isn’t a friend. Not yet, and maybe never. Now he’s outright asking me to be one to him.
“Please,” he all but whispers, and I shouldn’t. Not after the last time.
Dair smiles up at me, and it’s wild how much I want to.