Authors: Leisa Rayven
Oh, God.
Naked Holt.
Naked and wet.
I look down to his very fine ass.
God help me.
Oh, yeah, Ruby, I’ll be fine with him overnight. I can control myself. Sure.
I can’t drag myself away from the water sluicing over his muscles. “Idiot.”
He turns his head. “Did you say something?”
“Nope. Just talking to myself.” While ogling your incredible ass.
I quickly look away and train my focus on his bed. The sheets are twisted and crumpled, and look kind of damp.
I close the door and set about stripping them. While I remake the bed, I try really hard to not think about the glory of his back, legs, and ass, and how they might look sprawled out on the fresh sheets.
As I work, I look around his room. It’s messy but not in a gross way. There are haphazard piles of books and DVDs on his desk, as well as a mess of paper and his laptop, and there’s a sprawl of video games on the floor near the latest Xbox. Other than that, it’s pretty clean and dust free. Not the worst boy’s room I’ve ever seen.
I grab a fresh T-shirt from his dresser and am in the middle of spending way too long in his underwear drawer when the shower turns off. With more than a little guilt, I grab the nearest pair of boxers and shut the drawer.
When I hear the bathroom door swing open, I turn to find Holt wearing only a towel, a halo of steam emerging from behind him.
I’m internally horrified as a Beyoncé song starts playing in my head and everything goes into slow motion. Water droplets glisten on his muscles, and I feel my mouth drop open as I watch one travel from his clavicle all the way down to his belly button.
Goddamn. Gorgeous.
“Hey,” he says, his voice almost completely gone.
“Hey!” I snap out of my daydream and wave the fresh clothes at him a little too enthusiastically. “These are for you. How was your shower? You’re still wet. You should dry yourself. Not with the towel around your waist of course, because then you’d be naked and … well, you can use that towel if you like. I mean, it’s your bedroom, and if you want to be naked you can. I could watch—I mean, leave. If you want to be alone and naked, I could wait in the living room. Or go for a walk. Whatever you like.”
He laughs, or at least I think he does, because he’s so wheezy he sounds like a cartoon character. “Taylor, stop talking.”
“Sure.”
“Give me my clothes.”
I hand them over, and he goes back into the bathroom and shuts the door.
Flopping down onto the bed, I put my head in my hands and sigh. My overwhelming attraction to him, even when he’s a virtual cornucopia of mucus-producing bacteria, is beyond appalling.
The bathroom door opens, and he walks over to me, his hair much drier and his body less naked.
I stand and touch his forehead. “You feel a bit cooler.”
“Yeah? Good.”
He stares at me for a second, and I’m reminded that if I want to stay away from him, he really shouldn’t be allowed to look at me like that.
“Get into bed,” I say, my voice breathier than I intend.
He frowns. “Taylor, I’m flattered, but I’m sick. Maybe later?”
“You’re hilarious. But seriously, get under the covers. You’re shivering.”
“That’s because it’s cold.”
“It’s really not.”
“Whatever.” He crawls into bed and pulls the covers up to his chin. “I’m just going to close my eyes for a minute. All that standing up in the shower kind of took it out of me.”
“Of course it did. You’re an actor. You’re not used to working that hard.” He glares. “Aaaand that’s my cue to go get you food and drugs.”
A little while later, I return with a tray laden with instant chicken soup, a glass of pineapple juice, the bottle of cough medicine, the antibiotics, and Tylenol.
Holt is fast asleep.
“Hey, wake up.”
He groans and turns over.
I put the tray down on his nightstand and gently shake his shoulder.
“Come on, Holt. Your drug pusher has arrived. You have to wake up.”
His head lolls to the side, but he doesn’t stir.
“Oh, no,” I say in a breathy voice. “I spilled soup all over myself in the kitchen and had to remove my shirt and bra. I need you to cover my naked breasts with your giant hands.”
He jolts awake and looks at my fully clothed form in confusion for a few seconds before flopping back onto the pillows and sighing.
“That was mean and unnecessary. You don’t promise a dying man boobs and then renege.”
“You’re not dying.”
“If I was, could I see your boobs?”
“No. That right is reserved for my boyfriend, and since that’s not you—”
Shit, Cassie. Don’t blackmail him with your boobs. Low blow.
“Sorry, that was…”
“It’s fine,” he says before clearing his throat and rubbing his eyes. “You’re right.”
He looks down at his hands, and I’m aware we need to talk about stuff, but now isn’t the time.
“You need to sit up,” I say as I grab two Tylenol and the juice. “Take these. Then eat your soup.”
He does as he’s told.
Fifteen minutes later, he’s finished most of his soup, taken his antibiotics and cough medicine, and drunk all of his pineapple juice.
I take the tray into the kitchen, and when I return, his eyelids are drooping.
I pull the covers up to cover him. “How are you feeling now?”
“Sloshy,” he says before yawning. “And kind of stoned. What the hell is in that cough medicine?”
“Magical sleep voodoo.”
“Oh. I thought it might have just been a sedative of some sort.”
“Yeah. That, too.”
“It’s strong.”
“Good. You need sleep.”
He yawns again and looks up at me, and it’s just wrong how handsome he still is.
Before I can leave, he grabs my hand with his too-warm fingers.
“Stay,” he says as he brushes his thumb across the back of my hand.
“You need to rest.”
“I will. Just stay with me. Please.”
In his current state, I know I can’t deny him anything. I remove my shoes and go around to the other side of the bed. He turns toward me as I climb on top of the covers.
“After our fight on Wednesday,” he says, “the last place I thought you’d be this weekend was in my bed.”
I nod. “I have to admit, when I’ve thought about finally seeing your bedroom, I imagined it would be under far more sexy and far less mucus-y conditions.”
“What, my pleurisy cough and laryngitis aren’t turning you on? What’s wrong with you, woman?”
Oh, Holt, if you only knew how much you still turn me on, you’d be embarrassed for me.
He puts his arm under his head and looks up at me. “Is it wrong that seeing you in my bed makes me want to do things to you, even when I’m this sick?” His words are slurred, and I wonder if he’d have said such a thing without the drugs in his system.
“Ethan, we agreed—”
“No, we didn’t,” he says and touches my thigh. “You told me we had to stop touching each other if we weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend. I didn’t agree to it. You walked off before I could tell you it was a fucking horrible idea.”
“It wouldn’t change things if you had.”
He looks down. “I know. I stood outside your apartment in the rain for nearly an hour, trying to figure out how fix it. When I realized I didn’t have the guts to knock on your door and tell you I was an idiot, I was so fucking angry with myself I came home and got drunk. Then I passed out on the couch, still soaking wet. Woke up in the middle of the night freezing my ass off.”
“God, Ethan…”
He runs his hand up to the waistband of my jeans and blinks long and slow before pushing a finger beneath the hem of my shirt.
“Your skin is so soft,” he whispers as he splays his hand over my stomach. He moves his fingers up until he’s touching the underside of my bra. It makes me want to forget all about his germs and shove his hand either higher or lower.
Instead, I take in a steadying breath and put my hand over his, stopping him.
He’s sick and full of drugs. He’s allowed to have a lapse in judgment. I have no excuse. I’m just horny.
“Ethan, we can’t.”
“I know.” He sounds tired, and his words slur together. “ButIwanto. Somuch. Because … not touching youis…” He pauses, eyes closing. “It’s … I hate it.”
His head slumps, and his hand falls away, and I thank God he’s asleep before he can hear my groan of sexual frustration.
Holt sleeps fitfully, tossing and turning as the fever and drugs work their way through his system. He alternates between shoving me away as he spread-eagles on the bed, and clinging to me with desperate intensity.
After an hour, he starts mumbling and groaning.
“Cassie…”
His eyes are closed, but he’s reaching for me.
“I’m here,” I say as I touch his face. His forehead is hot and slick with sweat. “I’m just going to get a washcloth for your head, okay?”
His eyes snap open, heavy and full of panic. “You’re leaving?”
“I’ll be right back.”
“No … please.” He pulls my hand to his chest and presses his forehead against my arm. “Don’t leave. Please, not you.”
He looks so desperate as he grips me like his life depends on it, that I’m not entirely sure he’s awake.
He keeps mumbling “Please, Cassie,” over and over again, and it’s only when I pull him in to my chest and run my fingers through his hair that he relaxes.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I won’t leave. I’ll stay with you.”
He sighs, and the air is still thick and wheezy in his lungs. “Thank you.”
He pushes his head into my neck, and I’m a little shocked when I feel his lips on my throat.
“Ethan?”
He moans and kisses me again as his arms tighten.
“I love you,” he murmurs as he rests his head on my shoulder. “I love you so much. Don’t leave me.”
He slumps back into sleep, and I’m left reeling.
It’s not until I feel the burn in my lungs that I realize I’ve forgotten to breathe.
EIGHTEEN
SURE BET
After Holt’s unexpected and semi-delirious admission of love, he continues to groan and mumble for hours.
Predictably, he doesn’t repeat it.
The balloon of wild hope in my chest slowly deflates.
When I snuggle into his side and try to sleep, he wraps around me like a possessive boa constrictor. It makes me smile.
It’s still dark when I become aware of fingers grazing over my skin. They push under the hem of my shirt and trail across my stomach.
“Ethan?”
He clears his throat. “You expecting some other guy in bed next to you? ’Cause I’m not too sick to kick his ass.”
He still sounds terrible, but there’s something about the rumbling timbre in his voice that gives me goose bumps.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Just wanted to feel your skin.”
There’s a hint of groan in his voice that worries me, but when I touch his forehead, it’s cool. The fever’s finally broken.
“How are you feeling?”
“Horny.” He moves his hand higher, then warm fingertips stroke my side. “Want you.”
He presses against me, hot and hard on my thigh, rocking his hips in a way that leaves no doubt as to exactly how much he wants me.
“Oh, God…” My body reacts without engaging my brain, and I tighten my arms around him.
“Cassie…”
He slides his hand up to my breast and gently kneads it through my bra. The sensation spirals down all my limbs.
Warning bells go off in my head, because I know if I don’t stop him now, what he’s doing will rob me of all the reasons I shouldn’t let him touch me like this, and I’ll be back where I was four days ago.
“Ethan … we have to stop.”
He pulls back and looks at me. “You think I can’t tell how much you want me? You’re practically tearing off my shirt.”
“That’s not the point.”
“No, the point is you want me to keep going, but only on your terms. As your boyfriend.”
“Is it so wrong that I need to know where I stand with you?”
“Dammit, Taylor, do you honestly not know how I feel by now? I know I’m a good actor, but as far my feelings go, I’ve been stupidly transparent.”
“I need to hear you say it.” My voice is barely a whisper.
“I told you earlier.”
“I didn’t think you were awake.”
“I’m awake now.”
“Then say it again.”
He leans down and kisses my temple, then my cheek, then as close as he can get to my mouth without actually touching my lips.
“I love you, Cassie. I don’t want to, but I do. Now, please…” He kisses my neck again, lips soft and open as he trails his hand down to the button of my jeans. “Shut up and let me touch you. It’s been too long. I’m losing my freaking mind.”
I close my eyes as he pops the button and lowers the zipper. Then all I can do is press my head back into the pillow, because he’s pushing his fingers into my panties, and any sense of reality completely disintegrates. His fingers are sure and strong, making me arch and pant as he puppet-masters all the strings of my pleasure, inciting noises that are way too loud in his dark, silent room.
He circles his fingers, his breath hot on my throat, my mind spinning as everything inside me curls and tightens.
I groan, because what he’s doing isn’t enough. I need more. All of him.
“Please,” I whisper as I reach between us and find him through his boxers, hard and long.
“Jesus, Taylor … “
I grip him and move slowly up and down, trying to draw him closer. “Ethan, please…”
He makes a low sound and wraps his fingers around mine.
“Cassie, stop. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I do. Want you. Love you, too.”
“You … what?!”
“Ethan … inside me … Love you.”
“Cassie!”
Then, I’m being shaken, and when I open my eyes, Holt’s looking down at me, frowning and breathing heavily as sunlight spills into the room.
I gasp as my pre-orgasmic tension melts away, and I take stock of where I am.
One of my hands is pressing firmly between my thighs, and the other …
Oh, God.