Page 37 of How Much For A Broken Heart?

August winced as the razor buzzed over his skin near a healing cut. At least the bruises on his face had gone.

“We’ll get you cleaned up. You’ll feel better after this.”

August responded with another sigh and a muttered thank you, but he didn’t open his eyes all the time I was this close to him shaving, at least not until I was done. When he looked at me, I could see the lighter ring around his pupils, and the way they darkened into a stormy gray, and I was lost in his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded, raising a hand to his chin.

“Just checking,” I excused my staring, then flicked on the shower, turning the head to the drain so it didn’t fall on him yet, and tested the warmth of it. He reached, shaking, the water cascading over his fingers, splashing him, wetting his gown, and he shivered.

“It’s perfect temperature,” I said.

“You can leave now,” he murmured and struggled to stand.

“Yeah, no.” I said, then stepped close to him, tugging at the gown, and easing it off his shoulders. He struggled to hold himself back, but then, something passed between us, him backing down, me not giving him quarter, and at last, it fell to the floor, revealing the bandage covering his healing wound. “Doc said we need to shield this,” I explained, and making sure he had hold of the grab rail, I took the plastic wrap and made quick and efficient work of covering him up, front and back, stripped off my sweats down to my boxers and T-shirt, and then, as detached as I could be, I supported him to stand under the water for as long as he could.

As August was under the soothing stream, his expression was a mix of relief and exhaustion. The warmth of it cascading over his body seemed to ease some of the tension that had built up during his hospital stay. His eyes were closed, and his expression wasn’t quite so tight. I took his hand and squeezed gel into it, causing him to open his eyes and stare at me.

“It’s okay,” I murmured and rubbed my hand on his to make the suds, and he ran his free hand down his chest, then sagged against me. I braced myself and knew this wasn’t going to work—hell, it was never going to work—but he kind of needed to work that out for himself. “I can help.”

“You wanna clean my junk?” he snarled.

“I’ve seen cocks before, and not just Navy ones, but real Army ones,” I deadpanned.

We were in an epic face-off, and then, he snorted a laugh as if he couldn’t believe what his options were. “Fuck me,” he muttered.

“I expect dinner first.”

I eased his death grip on the support rail, sat him down on the seat there, and made sure I was braced against the tiled wall, ignoring the throbbing in my knee, and washed him carefully, with so many bubbles the bathroom was steamy with citrus. I tried to maintain a sense of impersonal care, even though my heart was pounding with emotions I couldn’t express. I focused on the task at hand, on being as gentle as possible. My gaze was fixed on the washcloth, not daring to look at the skin I was touching, because being this close to August was messing with my head. My soapy fingers traced the contours of his body, but it was all in the name of helping him, of aiding in his recovery.

At least, that was what I was telling myself.

I couldn’t allow my own feelings to complicate things further. So, I kept my voice steady, my touch light, and my eyes averted. It was a difficult balance, cleaning up someone you realized you wanted, but couldn’t fully have, but then, even after don’t ask don’t tell, it wasn’t as if I was new to keeping secrets.

I brought out the big guns—well, a soft sponge anyway—cleaned what I could reach and helped him hold it to wash his boys, supporting him. He was draped over me, and I think he was shaking, although it was difficult to tell under the water.

I could feel the tension in August’s body melting as my fingers worked shampoo through his hair. The warm water cascaded over us, and for a moment, it felt as though we were sharing an intimate and peaceful moment amid the chaos that had defined our connection so far.

As I covered his eyes and rinsed his hair, the only thing holding him upright was the death grip he had on my T-shirt. He murmured something against my neck, but I couldn’t make out the words. I was hyper-aware of the closeness between us. The water droplets glistened on his skin, and I couldn’t help but steal a glance at the man in my arms. August’s face was tilted away from me as I washed. His eyes were closed, and a faint, contented smile tugged at the corner of his lips. It was a rare moment of peace from him.

“Are you okay?” I asked over the noise of the water.

“Gah,” was all he managed, and then, it was all about getting him out of the room, wrapped in towels, and me still dripping wet. I half lifted him to the bed, his heavy ass was drooping, and I eyed the emergency cord for a moment, wondering if I should call someone for help.

But I knew this would be a betrayal of the trust he’d handed to me, so I soldiered on until he was on the edge of the bed, and I helped him sit.

“Stay there,” I ordered.

There was no smart comeback, no sarcasm, not even a faint curse, just him hanging his head, water dripping from his wet hair into the towel around his waist.

I stripped off my wet shirt and jersey shorts, roughly dried my hair and wrapped a towel around my waist. Then, I repeated that for him, well, the hair part, and I toweled him off, then, instead of a hospital gown, I found a long baggy T-shirt and pulled it over his head. I smiled at the image of a unicorn pooping a rainbow on the front, and wondered how that would go down with my big bad SEAL, but for now, he didn’t have a thing to say.

I eased him back into bed, wondered about what he should be wearing under the T-shirt, like sweats or… but after peeling off the wrap, I could see his wound was right where the waist of those would be. Instead, I ran my fingers through August’s hair to straighten its damp length, then helped him into bed, propping him up on the pillows.

“Thirsty? Hungry?” I asked.

He shook his head yawned and closed his eyes. I pulled the blinds to give the illusion it was dusk and not ten in the morning.

By the time I left the room, he was sleeping, the flicks and curls of his hair a dark halo around his pale face.

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