Page 54 of Cloud Storm

Lancelot is collapsed on the bed, lying face down. He’s wearing boxers and a wrinkled T-shirt. His legs and his arms are stretched out, hanging off the mattress.

This is weird.

“Lancelot?” I call him one more time, to see if he shows signs of life.

I only hear the low sound of his breathing in response. Well, at least he’s not dead.

I take a couple of steps until I’m next to the bed, leaning in to touch his forehead. He’s burning with fever.

What do I do now? I know nothing about taking care of someone. And believe me when I say nothing.

Well, I guess the first thing is to turn him over so he can breathe more easily, and when I manage to move him, I can see his lips are bone dry.

Holy fuck. I need to get some fluids into him, that much is obvious.

In his refrigerator, there isn’t much to choose from, however, I find a couple of bottles of coconut water, which contain electrolytes and some other minerals that’ll make him feel a bit better.

Back in his room, I sit on the bed next to him, trying to move him once more, to get him to sit up and take some drink.

“For a slim man you’re really heavy, Lancelot.” I try to move him, but it’s in vain.

The Suit weighs a ton.

He half opens his eyes, but I guess he’s still out of it as he closes them again.

Damn it.

After shaking him a little—okay, more than a little—he takes two small sips of the liquid I offer him before crashing out again.

What’s the next step?

I decide to call Roselynn to ask for help, but I’m out of luck because the call goes directly to voicemail. Who knows where she and Chase are. Probably somewhere incapable of keeping their damn hands to themselves.

A good shower would probably help to reduce Lancelot’s fever, but I doubt he can stand up by himself and I’m not strong—or tall enough—to support us both.

“Wet towels, it is.”

I get to work, looking in the tidy closet in the bathroom and in the kitchen for everything I need.

Maybe I should take this opportunity to change his clothes.

Refreshing his face is simple enough, but trying to take off his shirt is another matter. The Suit is deadweight and doesn’t cooperate in the slightest, so maneuvering him becomes a Herculean task. But when I finally get the shirt over his head, my eyes can’t help wandering over his impressive torso.

What? I’m a woman with two eyes. Shut your pipes!

Lancelot seems to have been carved by hand, the lines of his chest, taut and muscular, invite my fingers to trace them, making paths on them. I’m awestruck by his hard muscles, he’s everything I imagined and more. I don’t know why he insists on hiding such a great body under those suits, he should walk around naked, the female population of Southern California would certainly appreciate it.

Yes, sir!

“You’re an angel,” murmurs a voice that I barely recognize as his.

“Sure, one sent from hell itself to torment you,” I joke, in an attempt to lighten an awkward situation.

“You came here to save me,” he mutters, before falling back to sleep, half naked and in my arms.

Why the fucking hell am I here?

This is too much temptation for a gal to resist. I can’t stop thinking naughty things and the man is sick, for fuck’s sake.

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