Chapter Ten Care
Nudity has to be romantic. Glamorous. The lights have to be soft and just at the right dimness. The nightie on. Or the panties and bra screaming “slutty club kitty.” Nudity isn’t functional in a relationship.
Until it is. Until now. That’s when you can see if a guy wants to fuck you—or cherish you.
“You have to take that off,” Gordon says in a strangled voice, pointing to my dress.
“I’m going to sanitize your bathtub, then put you under a cool shower.
Get you clean and shampoo your hair. Then, I’m going to get you dry.
It’s important to let your feet and hand air-dry, okay?
After that, we can apply the burn cream and gauze. ”
“I can do all of that myself,” I say, blushing.
Gordon crosses his arms. Sets that monolithic jaw. “No.”
“No?”
“I don’t want you to hurt your hand by rubbing it in the shampoo. It could irritate the burn. And I don’t want you standing in the shower longer than you have to, even once it’s cleaned.”
“I cleaned before I planned to go on vacation,” I mumble. This monster firefighter I have all the warm fuzzies for is offering to bathe me and clean my shower? I feel like that’s marriage material.
Or an excuse to get from kisses to third base and rounding home pretty damn quick. Either way, I find myself not minding.
“The burns are minor. If they get infected, they’ll be major problems. Two or three days of rest will turn into a hospital stay. You listen to me, and I’ll take care of you. I promise.” Gordon’s voice drops from stern to soft.
Well, what the hell am I supposed to do, aside from melt and nod?
So, I nod and stay on my perch at the sink.
I watch in awe as Gordon ferrets out cleaning supplies, strips off his shirt, and attacks my shower and tub as if it were filled with invisible germs personally plotting my downfall.
He practically boils the suds away, filling the bathroom with steam.
Holy deltoids and tasty trapezius! The back. The shoulders. Gordon is a waterfall of rippling muscles, glistening with steam.
“Let me help you out of that dress, Andrea,” Gordon says, scrubbing his hands and arms under the shower, looking like the world’s hottest surgeon prepping to operate.
Then, he turns the water cooler and holds out a towel from the towel hooks on the back of my door.
“I’ll wrap you in this and hold you, okay? ”
“What, in the shower?”
“Mhm.”
“In your jeans?”
Gordon stares down at his legs as if he forgot they existed. “Oh. No, they’re definitely not the best for the shower. I’ll wrap up in a clean towel.”
“That works.” I keep studying the muscles on this man. It’s a good distraction from the pain in my feet, pain that’s suddenly getting sharper as my adrenaline fades.
“Yes. That would work.” Gordon holds still, hands outstretched with the towel, unmoving.
“Right. The dress.” I start tugging one arm free.
“The dress.” Gordon closes his eyes and turns his head for good measure.
“Not to make this more awkward,” I grunt, squirming and scooting, trying not to come down onto the tiled floor with a thud on my burnt feet, “but aren’t emergency personnel supposed to do work with their eyes open? Like, how do you know you won’t get shampoo in my eyes if your eyes are closed?”
“I have not figured that out,” Gordon says in a pained voice. “But I have figured out that it is rude to stare at a beautiful woman undressing unless she... Unless the situation is different.”
“The situation is you taking care of me. If you were hurt, I’d take care of you.
And... And people in relationships share things like this.
It doesn’t have to be sexual. It can be practical.
” I keep my voice calm and my eyes on his face with an effort.
I definitely am not looking at the place below his waistband while making this mature, grounded speech, definitely not while I’m feeling exhaustion and pain creep up on me.
But I am. Busted.
Gordon nods. “All right. Practical.”
I have seen naked human bodies many times. I’ve even touched people, helped cut off clothes, helped deliver a child once, although I was mainly near the head of the mother while Eddie Hyde was doing all the difficult work of catching and swabbing and dealing with fluids.
Andrea, even though she has been through an ordeal this evening, looks incredibly beautiful. Feels so warm and soft in my arms. As I slide her dress down over her shoulders and to her waist, she wraps her arms around my neck so I can lift her hips and pull the dress off.
Sweet Jesus and all the angels, she is so perfect.
Everything about Andrea is so pliable, so pretty in shades of pink and caramel, and my body responds to her in ways that are not practical at all.
I have to bite my tongue, hard, to remember that I need to take care of her first—even if my cock has different ideas when she unhooks her bra while leaning against my chest.
I’m quick to wrap the towel around her, and then I hold her off the counter again so she can wriggle out of her underwear. I shed my jeans, apply my own towel, and pull my boxers off when I’m sure everything is covered.
Although a certain treacherous appendage is not making the “covering” part easy.
“Gordon?”
“Hm?” I know she’s right next to me, but it feels like I’m in a world of my own, and I need to get out of it. Back to her.
Back to us.
Oh. I’m part of an “us.”
Partner. Mate. Love. Andrea. Andrea, and the cat, and me.
A family.
“You look kinda dazed. Are you okay? When you go into stone form, do you need a while to recover?”
I scoop Andrea up, keeping her up high on my chest while praying the towel stays knotted around my waist. “I’m fine. I recover fast. Trolls have a lot of strength and stamina.”
“Hmm. Good to know.” There’s a note of playfulness in Andrea’s voice that almost makes me drop her as my insides snap to attention like a slingshot set free.
Taking care of Andrea is a delightful combination of tenderness and dedication.
I know my tasks, and once I step into the shower, I’m all business.
Andrea’s health is my goal. I scrub, I shampoo, and I keep her burns cool and clean.
It takes less time than I would have thought, and my emotions are behaving—until I notice her hair literally breaking off under my hand and falling into the tub.
“It’ll grow back. I’m freezing. Are we done?” Andrea finally asks, teeth chattering.
“Oh! Yes. Yes, let’s get you warm and dry—and I used your other towel.
” I look at the tiny thing that was clearly made for petite humans like Andrea.
It’s like a wet, white terrycloth loincloth.
Probably not a flattering look. I put Andrea back on the counter and run dripping to the linen closet in the hall, and bring back an armful of fresh, dry towels. “Here.”
Andrea takes a towel, her eyes fixed on my midsection. “Can I tell you something?”
I don’t think I can stop her. I’m not sure if I want to stop her. “Yes.”
“That is a really, really good look on you. You know, from a girlfriend’s perspective.”
Girlfriend.
By the stones, I have one. I have a beautiful, naked girlfriend. Trusting me with her health and her body.
Everything in me swells up with pride (and worry). One part swells up with excitement from being near her and knowing what it feels like to hold a wet, soapy Andrea against my chest, even as I try to keep my thoughts pure and professional.
“Thank you.” I belatedly remember speaking is expected.
With Andrea, it’s encouraged.
“Where are your pajamas?” I say the next thing that needs to be said. I’ll work on saying things for “fun” later.
“Top drawer with all my undies and socks.”
“Got it.” I rush out, taking one dry towel with me. “You get somewhat dry,” I instruct.
“Will do, Lieutenant Boyfriend,” she teases, voice soft and breaking with a yawn.
My family never laughed. Never joked. My brothers and I tried sometimes, but our senses of humor were too different.
My older brothers had my mother’s cruel sense of humor.
They laughed at violence and death, laughed at others’ expense.
My younger brothers and I laughed at them—at the blunders they made, at their stubbornness and the pitfalls they incurred because of it.
That kind of laughter earned pummeling and brawling, or my mother’s swift, jagged wrath.
Andrea wants to have a relationship with me. I’m thrilled.
I’m also scared. I haven’t been scared in a long time. I have reports to write. Things to figure out. A mysterious fire to investigate. So what am I afraid of? A rogue arsonist? A hellhound breaking through the protective barriers of Pine Ridge?
No. I’m afraid of blowing this. I don’t know how to have a normal relationship—and Andrea doesn’t know how bad at this I’m going to be.
Gordon drapes me in a pink summer nightgown that falls to my knees, carries me to my room, and treats my burns. He wraps my feet and one hand loosely in gauze, and pats my hair dry as he can, smoothing it with his fingers in long, damp waves.
I know other guys would have made a move by now. Tried to get a peek. Tried to sneak a feel.
“I have to start the laundry. You sleep. I’ll be right back. I’ll put Chopin in here with you so he doesn’t sneak out the door.”
“It’s so late. You need to sleep.”
“If I don’t do laundry, I’ll be walking around in a towel tomorrow.” Gordon freezes, and he looks so uncomfortable. I couldn’t tell as much before, not with him holding me, usually behind me.
“Right. I’m sorry I don’t have anything bigger for you,” I apologize. “Oh! A sheet? Do you want one of my sheets? You’d make one fine Roman senator,” I grin.
Gordon’s face twitches, and a grin flits across and away. “I will find a sheet.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know... I don’t know if I’m not supposed to say things like that,” I whisper, twisting my fingers.