Chapter 7
GINNY
“You want me to get into that?!” Dylan laughs, as I drag the old tin tub before the fire. “This place doesn’t have plumbing?”
“Yes. But you’re in no condition to stand under a shower. I need to clean your wounds and put anesthetic on it.”
Charlie Boy watches my every move as I haul the last pot of boiling water and dump it in. I follow it up with tap water. I will be lukewarm, but it will have to do.
At least it won't freeze his balls off, I think to myself.
I turn to Dylan and bow, speaking in my best impersonation of a butler from TV's Downton Abby.
"Your bath is ready, sir."
For a man who’s been through hell, he looks deliciously buff. His chest muscles ripple under his shirt as I get close.
His jeans are dark with mud and blood. Yet they fit so snugly they look plastered to his skin.
"Can you manage taking them off?”
His hands move, fumbling with the button at his waist, his knuckles white against his taut stomach.
Watching his fingers struggle, I feel a yearning within my core.
And with it, that need. A tantalizing pull, deep in my womb, that this storm—and this man—are making stronger.
"I... I don't know if I can," he grinds out, finally popping the first button.
But his hands fall away. "I'm not... strong enough."
Poor baby, I think, and a cynical part of me wonders how weak he really is.
No matter. Medical emergency.
I kneel.
My hands close over his, pushing them aside. "Let me."
I pull the zipper. It snags, moving with a slow, tooth-by-tooth reveal.
Then I hook my thumbs in his waistband, right on his hip bones, and yank. Slowly.
Is it my imagination, or is that a hard ridge an erection pressing against the front of his clean, white underwear?
I force myself to look away, my cheeks hot.
It’s quick work to pull the denim down his thighs, over his ankles, and kick the ruined jeans away.
Now, only his underwear is left.
“Your briefs. They'll never dry in this weather. Would you prefer to wear them into the tub, or take them off?”
I try to make my voice sound casual. But but deep inside, I haven't seen a man's cock in so long...
He favors me with a teasing smile, his dark eyes challenging.
“Ah, so that’s the way it is.”
I hook my thumbs in that waistband and pull them off.
Oh my God.
It’s not just my imagination. His cock is outrageously hard, springing free, thick and long.
How can a wounded man have a such raging erection? Or maybe he’s not so severely wounded at all.
I force my eyes away, but he caught me looking.
"Hold on to my shoulder," I say, my voice tight. "I'll walk you to the tub."
He follows, leaning on me, and I help him step in. "Okay. Sit."
"Yes, ma'am," he says, and I catch a little wink.
Oh, this guy is gorgeous.
Kneeling by the tub, I dip the washcloth into the hot water, then add the foaming antiseptic soap.
I start with his face, gently cleaning the cut just below his eye. It’s not deep. It will heal soon. It won’t mar his good looks.
Or maybe I wish it would to keep other women away. Damn it. If only he wasn't so attractive.
Calm down, Ginny, I tell myself. A gem like him is probably married.
"I wish my phone was working,” I say, lightly scrubbing the blood from his jaw. "So you could call your wife, let her know you're safe. She’s probably worried.”
"I don't have a wife," he says, his voice a low rumble.
"Girlfriend?"
He just shakes his head.
I stop myself from asking how is that possible?
It would sound flirtatious, and I’m on "official firewomen business."
Instead, I make up for the personal question by scrubbing the road rash on his shoulder a little rougher.
"Ouch," he says.
"Sorry. Want to make sure it's clean so it won't get infected."
I move down his body to clean what could be scrapes on his upper thighs. My knuckles accidentally glide over his cock, now even harder.
It springs to life, jumping against my hand.
"Sorry," he says, sounding embarrassed.
"It's perfectly all right. I'm a professional medic," I say, with far more confidence than I feel.
At this moment, I’m more of a sex-starved woman hungering for this gorgeous stranger’s cock.
“Why don’t you join me in the tub. You have blood all over you," he says, his dark eyes trailing from my face to the front of my shirt. "My blood."
The area between my thighs moistens and tingles.
“You forget you’re the patient and I’m the nurse.”
“Role play is my favorite game,” he says, his dark eyes boring into mine.
Oh, man. I’m losing it fast. A wounded man wants to make dinner for me.
And give me a bath.
He’s so delicious looking sitting in that bath. Like a male model posing in a depression era tin tub with his wet hair slicked back from his gorgeous face. Droplets of water cling to his broad shoulders.
“Get in the tub, Ginny,” he says, looking at me with his dark eyes. “I’ll make room.”
“No,” I say, stepping back. “I need to make dinner.”
“With what?” he grins. “The remaining flour Mr. Raccoon left you?”
“We’ve got a few things here. Charlie Boy’s kibble is sealed tight.
And we have safe drinking water at the bare minimum.
I had ordered provisions from the Fire Control delivery service a few days back, well ahead of the storm.
I’ll check the outside locker to bring it in. But let me dry you off first.”
I wrap the towel around him, loving the sensation of his firm, warm skin under my fingers.
“Now lay down in the bedroom. I’ll be right back.