Page 18 of Sold Rejected Mate
When I open my mouth and a breathy, uncontrolled sound comes out, he pulls his hand back, glancing up at me with wide eyes as though realizing he’s touched me. Then, I watchhim stretch out his hand, ball it into a tight fist, and stick it back at his side.
He can barely look at me.
“I’ll get you some pain meds,” he says, and then he’s gone just as quickly as he came, his scent hanging over my bed heavy and sticky, like he brought the steam from his shower down here.
And as I sit, entire body throbbing from the interaction, I realize why he’s been trying to encourage me to wash—I’m filthy. I’ve been rubbing up against the sheets and leaving traces of soot. The stiff, uncomfortable shirt and pants from the hospital bear little drops of blood, sweat stains, and some soup spills.
Shame rolls through me, hot and sickening, when I think about him touching my leg, coming in contact with my filth, pulling his hand back like he’d picked something up off the ground.
When he comes back, it’s in a pair of soft sweatpants and a loose FRFD t-shirt, which hugs his biceps and makes that fresh hunger pass through me all the more urgently. This time, when he leans down to hand the pain meds to me, I take his sleeve, tug at it.
“What?” he asks, eyes flicking up and down me like I might be in pain and he might be able to identify it with just a glance. “Do you want more soup?”
I shake my head, knowing my cheeks are burning, and unable to stop it. Slowly, averting my eyes, I raise my hands to my hair, miming shampooing.
His eyes widen slightly, and he pulls back. “You want to take a shower?”
I nod, though I’m not sure I’m going to have the strength for that. He swallows, reaches forward, and presses the two pills into my hand. “Take these. I’ll see if I can find you something else to wear.”
He leaves after I take the pills, and I sit there with the water glass in my hand, wondering what the hell I’m getting myself into.
Chapter 10 - Lachlan
I have seenmanynaked women before. It’s not like this is a first-time thing. I’ve brought traveling models and tourists back to my place, women with buttery-soft skin and expensive handbags. Women who were waxed and scrubbed, polished and lotioned, every step of their skincare routine seeping through their pores.
So why is my heart beating double-time at the thought of helping Green into the shower? Why are my hands shaking as I look for something for her to wear, finding—somehow—a set of Aurela’s pajamas from high school, mixed in with my things?
Holding the pajamas, I move to the bathroom and set them on the sink, eyes darting first to the bathtub, then to the shower. What would be safer for her? Sitting in the tub might be more comfortable for her leg. Trying to stand in the shower for that long might just lead to her slipping and cracking her head on the floor.
I turn on the bathtub tap, listening to the roar of it filling. Turning, I rummage through the drawers, knowing I got some expensive bath oil thing from a gift swap last Christmas. When I find it, I pull out the oil called “Serenity” and follow the instructions, dumping in a capful of it.
When I get back to Green’s room, her cheeks are still flushed, her hands shaking as I come to her bedside.
“You’re safe,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend. “I won’t do anything you don’t want, okay? If you’re uncomfortable, you just let me know, and we’ll stop.”
She looks up at me, and I watch her throat bob, that slight twinge of pain returning to her face as it does. Then she nods, sits up a little, reaches down, and pulls the covers away.
As she shifts, swinging her legs around with a wince, I clear my throat. “I thought a bath might be better, so you don’t have to stand.”
Sitting on the edge of the bed, she tips her head up and meets my eye, nodding slowly. We stay like that for a moment, then I clear my throat again—when have I ever been this nervous around a woman?—and ask, “Should I—well, would you be comfortable with me carrying you to the bathroom?”
Slowly, she nods, and my heart throws itself against my ribcage as I lean down and scoop her into my arms.
One might expect her to smell bad after a few days in bed, for her natural scent to be extra strong, but she doesn’t smell bad at all. In fact, there’s something wiped clean, like an absence of scent, hanging around her. Something almost scorched, the lingering scent of char and carbon in the air after a forest fire.
When we make it to the bathroom, I turn off the tap and set her down gently on a footstool. I am one of those rich bastards with furniture in my bathrooms—but, in my defense, the house came pre-furnished.
And the stool comes in handy now.
“Alright,” I say, swallowing as I kneel down in front of her, knowing realistically that I only have two pieces of clothing to remove—her top and the bottoms. Which should go first? What order is going to make this less awkward, less painful?
To my relief, Green takes over, reaching out and placing a hand on my shoulder, her eyes careful on mine as she uses me for balance, bringing herself to stand with all the weight on her right leg.
With a purposeful look, she closes her eyes tight, then points at me.
“You want me to close my eyes?”
She nods, and I swallow.
