Chapter 8 #2
“Now you think you can dictate what I do with my body?” The thin skin of her wrist rolled along it, causing physical pain inside him as he watched it all.
“Stop moving, because you’re touching urushiol!”
She hesitated for a second.
“What is oo-roo-she-all?”
“Poison ivy.”
“It’s winter. Nothing’s green. There’s no ivy anywhere.”
“That.” He pointed to the long vine, calculating.
Her bare skin had grazed the open machete cut, and she’d directly pressed against about two feet of the winding, hairy vine.
She was coated in highly concentrated oil, and third degree burns could result if she didn’t get it off her skin and get out of those clothes, now.
Moving to his kit bag, he found a bottle of dish soap.
“Take off your clothes.”
“WHAT?”
“Take off your clothes, now, Rachel.”
“Seriously? You’re making a pass at me? For a guy who feels nothing but apathy, you’re sending me some pretty mixed signals. And no. Of course I won’t take my clothes off! What’s wrong with you?”
“You need to get in the hot springs and soap up.”
“What kind of sick fantasy is this?”
“Trust me, this was never part of any fantasy I had about you. This is about preventing you from having third degree burns.” He stripped off his second layer of gloves and began unbelting her red wool coat. She batted at him, but he pivoted.
The last thing he needed was urushiol on him, too.
This was tricky. His suit might have some on it, and her hands and the right side of her definitely did. As steam wafted up between them, he formed a plan.
Fast.
“I’m giving you three seconds to start taking your clothes off, Rachel. The urushiol you touched on that grandfather vine is strong enough to cause third degree burns on bare skin.”
“Is this some kind of stunt? Am I being punked?”
“It’s not a stunt, and I’m completely serious. You have three seconds to get out of that coat and those pants.”
“What?”
“Every part of you that touched the vine is putting you in danger!” he shouted, unzipping his suit, peeling off his protective pants and jeans and nearly falling over as he hopped on one foot, suddenly standing there only in silk long johns, earning a gasp from her as he shed his clothes.
“What are you doing?”
“Rescuing you,” he said in a weary tone. “Again.”
It only took one good push to get her in the hot springs, his body remembering high school football, the instinct to shove forward and tackle kicking in. He hadn’t been on a field in a decade, but the move came back to him quickly. He was clutching the small bottle of soap in his hand.
Then a faceful of hot water hit him as he jumped in.
“ARE YOU CRAZY?” she sputtered, coming up for air, arms flapping. The thick wool coat was open in the front, but it weighed her down. He swam to her and began tugging at her cuffs.
“Get this off. It’s pulling you down.”
“BECAUSE YOU THREW ME IN THE WATER!”
“I DID IT TO SAVE YOUR SKIN!”
One yank and he freed her right arm, and then he had enough of the coat in his hands to pull it off her. Rachel bobbed underwater for a second, his legs kicking hard in the hot water to keep him afloat.
The wet, heavy coat was hard to chuck, but he did it, the splat as it landed on the edge of shore satisfying.
But this was just the start.
“Get your shoes off,” he ordered as he searched for the soap bottle, which he’d let go of. It was only half full and should be floating, but it was nowhere in sight.
If he couldn’t get that soap on her skin where the oily residue clung, she’d still get burned, and possibly even worse. Hot water was the worst thing to put on skin that had touched poison ivy, because it opened up the pores, but the soap with the water would do the trick.
Nothing about this situation was perfect. He’d have to do his best.
“I am swimming to shore!”
“Not before I soap you.” He grabbed her shoulder and tried very hard to convey the gravity of the situation.
“I’m not doing this to be a jerk. I’m doing this because you touched a very concentrated amount of poison ivy oil and I’m not kidding, not pranking, not punking you.
The sooner you’re out of the clothes that touched the oil, and soap up the parts of you that were exposed to it, the sooner we’ll avert disaster.
You’re especially vulnerable if you touched it with an open wound. ”
Finally, finally, the woman seemed to hear him.
“Oh, no,” she said, beginning to thrash in the water, awkwardly bending to unzip her ankle boot. She hauled the waterlogged thing up and threw it toward her coat. It hit shore. “This is definitely the worst day of my life!”
“Yesterday’s up there, too,” he muttered.
“I’m counting at twenty-four hours,” she yelled as she tossed her other boot, then began fumbling under water. “Pants, too?” she asked, eyes filled with fear.
“Anything that touched that vine.”
“I was wearing the coat, so my arm is fine.”
“Then pants.”
“But I’ll be half naked in public!”
“Won’t be the first time.”
“You are not helping!”
As she struggled in the water, he saw the soap bottle behind her. He swam to it and popped open the top, pouring some out.
“Shouldn’t we get to shore?”
“We’ll do two rounds of soap. One in the water, one out of it.” Holding out the bottle, he waited for her outstretched hand, but she was moving toward shore.
“Where are you going?”
“Where I can stand!”
Following her, he reached a point where he could just barely stand, the water to his chin. They were only five feet from shore, but the dropoff was steep.
“Stop here,” he ordered, pouring some soap out.
“I still can’t stand.”
“It’s a steep dropoff, you won’t be able to. Give me your arm.”
To his surprise, she complied, her other hand on his shoulder to stabilize. Once again, they were face to face, trapped by circumstance, but this time, he had to rub every inch of her body that might be at risk from the poison ivy.
A different kind of rescue.
Steam filled the air between them, Rachel’s face wet and flushed as he took her arm and rubbed the viscous liquid on her, foaming in the air, her skin soft and slick as he caressed her, moving slow. The job had to be thorough.
“It’s cold outside of the water.”
“I know,” he said. “But you have to lift your arm so I can get the soap on you.”
Again, she did as told, his motions slowing down as she thrashed less, now dependent on his steady stance to be able to do what needed to be done.
“Rise up and float on your back,” he said as he popped the top back on the soap bottle and slid one hand down to the small of her back, fingers trailing the cord of muscle, finding the swell of a hip.
His pulse picked up.
“On my back?”
“I can get the side of your leg that way.”
“Oh.”
As she let go of his shoulder, she moved next to him, her legs rising up as she formed her body into a T on the water’s surface. Squeezing more soap into his hand, he grasped her ankle, her toenails perfectly manicured like her fingernails, pink with white tips.
When he touched her, she gasped, the sound sensual and alluring, going straight to parts of him he did not want on display in wet silk long johns.
No siree.
Focusing on her injured hand from yesterday, he coated the glued cut. Urushiol was particularly dangerous if it got in the bloodstream via a cut, and Rachel’s hand was a crucial point of entry.
Moving his hand up the side of her calf, he worked with precision to coat her with the soap.
They were both silent until he reached her upper leg, then her hip, mentally mapping where she’d leaned against the vine, her breath quickening as he reached the back of her knee, the outer curve of her thigh.
Keeping his own breath steady wasn’t easy, either. For all her faults, Rachel was an exceptionally attractive woman, and having her before him half-clothed was maddening.
“Okay,” he said softly, soaping his hands as he let her float. “Done.”
Dropping her feet immediately, she sighed as the warm water enveloped her again. “How are we going to get out of this? We’ll freeze instantly.”
“I’ll go first and get a blanket from my truck. This is my fault.”
“No kidding.” Her hand went back on his shoulder, mouth twitching with a smile, eyes focused on him but soft.
Water lapped against them in the small space between their chests, the steam adding a magical quality that made him reach for her, his hands finding her waist, her sudden sharp inhale one of desire, not protest. Years of yearning pumped through his blood, and any fight he had against what he was about to do resolved when she leaned forward, her eyes closing, the kiss inevitable.
As their lips touched, red fireworks flashed behind his eyes.
It was a dream come true.
Until he heard his brother shout, “KELL, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?”
Rachel’s feet came up and kicked off his knees, pushing back so fast, she splashed him in the face. They turned to see Luke standing next to his pink cruiser, the door still open, lights flashing. He had pulled up in a clearing between the trees.
“Two calls came in about a couple skinny dipping in the springs. You know the best place for that is down near Greek’s Rock! Not here in town where people can see!”
“We’re not skinny dipping!” Rachel shouted. “I touched Kell’s vine and he had to rub me down.”
Luke shook his head, hands on his hips as he turned off the lights and walked closer, staring down at Rachel.
“Do I have to arrest you for public indecency, too? Touching his vine? Rubbing you down?”
“You know she’s talking about poison ivy, Luke.” Kell hauled himself out of the water, the chill welcome as it shrank him. “Be a good public servant and get us some insulated blankets from the trunk of your car.” The shock of cold brought him down to earth.
Kissing Rachel was a mistake.
Then why was it a mistake he really, really wanted to make again?
“What are you two really doing?”
“Fighting,” Kell said.
“With your lips?”