Chapter 13 #2
“You could have been killed.” I stare at him, unable to keep my emotions at bay.
He could have died, and I’d never have seen him again. The thought makes my heart thump painfully. Would I even have known? I might have gone the rest of my life thinking he’d just left me.
“Wes?” he says cautiously, probably because I look like I’m going to have a breakdown. “I’m perfectly fine. You can see that, and… And what are you doing?”
I’ve stepped into him, hugging his narrow waist and resting my head gently against him.
“I hate that you’re hurt,” I say, my voice muffled by his skin. He smells faintly of his cologne and hospital. I clutch him a little closer. Fear is a nasty taste in my mouth.
“For god’s sake,” he says resignedly, but his good arm bands around me, pulling me tighter, and we stay that way for a few seconds.
Eventually, he pulls away and sits on the mattress’s edge with a pained grunt. I kneel in front of him and lean in to gently kiss the biggest bruise, and then daringly nuzzle the edges of the scar on his stomach.
He sighs. “What on earth are you doing now?”
“Kissing it better.” I look up at him. “Didn’t your mum ever do that?”
A cynical expression crosses his face. “Hardly. She caused that one.”
“ What ?”
“Nothing.”
When he doesn’t elaborate, I try to think of something cheerful to say. “My kisses are well known for their restorative properties.” I give him a cheeky wink and stand. “Okay, do you feel up to a shower? You might feel better if you wash the hospital off you.”
He gives me a wry smile, but winces when it pulls at his sore lip. “Yes, that sounds good.” He stands up and I start to guide him into the bathroom. Predictably, he digs in his heels. “You know I can do this myself,” he grumbles.
“I’m sure you can, but not tonight, mister.”
“Why?”
I lean into the shower to start the water. “You’re not doing this on your own.”
“I’ve been showering alone for a long time.”
“I’m sure you have, factoring in your age.”
“What does that mean?”
The question is so indignant that I chuckle. “Nothing,” I say airily.
“Why are you taking your clothes off?” he asks in a slightly more interested tone.
I throw my T-shirt onto the counter and start unfastening my jeans. “Getting naked. What does it look like?”
“My next question is why?”
“To help you in the shower.”
“I’m not sixty.”
“Well, not quite yet.” I snort at the look on his face and then sober. “You’ve been hurt,” I say simply. “And you’ve only got one working arm. There’s no way you’re doing this on your own.”
Finally naked, I step closer, noticing with interest his cock stirring. I look up at him, and he shrugs. “I’d have to be dead not to respond to you naked,” he says.
That pleases me, and I give him an approving grin. “I want you to know that I douched earlier should you change your mind about a fuck.”
“What a simply charming conversation. I’m so sad that it appears you wasted your time.”
“Don’t be. I watched EastEnders while I did it.”
“This is the most erotic moment of my life.”
“Having a TV in the bathroom is lush.”
“I shall install them in all my properties should you ever feel the urge to visit them.”
“I’m afraid I’d be drawing my pension by the time I visited them all.”
He gives a pointed look at my clothes that are strewn over the counter.
“Hey, at least they aren’t on the floor,” I say crossly.
“Thank Jesus and all the baby angels.”
“Into the shower, Captain Sarcastic.”
I hover at his side, biting my lip until he’s finally in the stall. He leans back against the wall, sighing. Despite his humour, he’s now sheet white, his lips drawn tight in pain.
“Let’s make this quick,” I say gently. I reach out and pump my body wash, filling my palms with the scented gel. I start to wash him, rubbing along his skin gently, avoiding the bruises and cuts, until the shower stall fills with the scent of coconut.
He remains quiescent under my touch. The startled pleasure in his face is as clear as if he’s shouted it.
“That’s nice,” he whispers.
I smile sadly. When was the last time this man was touched for no other reason than kindness? I make my touch extra gentle, kneeling to soap his hairy legs, and it’s a symptom of how bad he feels that he doesn’t even make the requisite joke.
I rise and grab the shampoo. “Shall I do your hair?” I say, and his eyes fly open, his gaze startled as if he’d been dreaming.
“Gently,” he tells me very solemnly.
I hide my smile. “You’re the boss.”
I squeeze a glob out and then reach up to run my soapy fingers through his hair. He bends slightly so I don’t strain myself, and I start to massage his head. I’m careful, but he yelps with pain as I touch one area.
“Shit. Sorry.”
He captures my fingers, giving them a gentle squeeze. “It’s fine. Don’t worry.”
“Is that where you hit your head?”
He nods. I part the strands, and he holds very still. It’s almost like tending to a wild animal who permits touch after a lot of cajoling, but you’re left with the feeling it might rip your head off at any moment.
There’s an abrasion and a big lump on his scalp, and I wince in sympathy. “I won’t touch here,” I promise. “Do you trust me to do the rest?”
“Of course I trust you,” he says.
His body tenses as though he might not have wanted to admit that, but I ignore it, wanting to do this quickly because he’s tired and in pain. By the time I rinse the shampoo away, he’s swaying on his feet, looking a little green.
“Out now,” I say briskly, stepping out and grabbing a towel.
I wait with my hand outstretched as he steps gingerly out, and his mouth quirks into a half smile. “What are you actually planning to do if I fall? I’m taller than you and outweigh you.”
“I just want to make sure you don’t knock into my TV,” I say earnestly, just to see him smile. He obliges but then winces. I tsk. “Okay, enough banter out of you.”
“Out of me ?”
I dry him gently, rubbing the towel over him, mopping up the moisture, careful of the bruises on his pale skin. Then I step back. “Done. Let’s get you into bed.”
“Bed?” he echoes.
“Yes, dear. It’s the big thing in the bedroom with a mattress and sheets on it. You can’t miss it.”
He tries a glare, but it’s a pitiful thing. “I’m going home.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Oh no, you’re not.”
He eyes me interestedly. “You’re going to stop me?”
“To be honest, my grandma could manage that tonight.”
His eyes flicker with humour. “Planning to call her?”
“Only with the aid of a medium. She died fifteen years ago. I think even a ghost could take you down tonight, though.”
“You might be right.”
“I’m always right.” I gesture. “Into the bed with you. Spit spot.”
He slinks off, muttering under his breath, but I don’t miss his pleased sound when he climbs onto the bed, relaxing slowly back against the pillows with a pained wince. His hair is inky black against the white linen. I pull the covers over him, watching him snuggle into them.
“Do you want a painkiller?”
His eyes open. Even the blue is faded tonight. “The hospital gave me some stuff.”
“Where is it?”
“In my jacket pocket.”
“I’ll get it. Don’t go anywhere.”
“Where would I go? You’re holding me prisoner.”
“Yeah, and don’t forget that.”
He chuckles, and I gather up his clothes, pausing to grab a dry-cleaning bag from the cupboard and making my way into the foyer.
I rifle through his pockets and set his wallet and a paper bag with his painkillers on the console table.
Then, I bundle the clothes in the bag, set them in the lift, and make the phone call to reception to do an emergency dry clean.
Once that’s done, I retrieve the things from the table. However, in my haste, I fumble them, and his wallet falls to the floor, spilling its contents onto the carpet.
“Shit,” I mutter, kneeling to scoop up the coins and detritus that even Mac—Mister Tidy himself—has in his wallet. An item has rolled farther than the others, and I stretch to pick it up.
I take a sharp breath as I cradle it in my palm. It’s the little silver sunflower I bought him in Paris. I stare at it dazedly. Why is he still carrying this?
Something flares in my heart like a small firework of hope. Surely, this has to mean something. Mac doesn’t strike me as a sentimental man, so why is he carrying this around in his wallet, where you keep things that are precious?
I shake my head, pushing that dangerous thought away, but my fingers are shaky, and I put the sunflower back in his wallet as gently as possible.
Rising, I stride into the kitchen to grab a glass of water and then pause. Has he eaten today? I bet not. I open the cupboards, look at their contents, and nod. Some toast and green tea. That’ll be gentle on his stomach.
Ten minutes later, I tiptoe into the room. Mac is quiet, his lips drawn in pain. It looks like he hasn’t moved since I left. “Mac?” I whisper.
His eyes slide open. “Hmm?”
“Here’s your tablets.”
“Why are you carrying a tray? Are they heavy?”
“What? Oh no. I read the back of the packet, and you need to eat before you take this type of painkillers.”
“And you made me something?”
My eyes narrow at the wariness in his voice. “Yes, I did. Is there any reason for that concern?”
“I’m just thinking back to all the times I’ve insulted you.”
“That’s going to take a while. Why don’t you eat first?” I set the tray down and help him sit up against the pillows. It’s another sign of how bad he’s feeling that he lets me.
When he’s as comfortable as he can be, I set the tray on his lap. “Ta-dah.”
“Is that toast and butter?” he asks slowly.
“Yep.”
“And you made this?”
“You sound like you’re about to award me my first Michelin star. It’s hardly difficult.”
He takes the tablet I hand him and swallows it with gulps of water. Then he subsides against the pillows, closing his eyes wearily. His lashes look like black feathers on his pale cheeks, and the bruising is very dark now. “I’m not very hungry,” he mumbles.
“Try,” I say gently. His eyes slide open, and he looks a little woozy. “You’ll feel better if you do.”