Page 147 of Severed Heart
“Connard,” I mumble, feeling shaky on my legs, fatigued already as sweat gathers at my temple.
“Talk to me, General,” he coaxes, sensing the change in me as he unbuttons my pajama top.
“Just, very weak. How long has it been?”
“Five days.”
“Fivedays?” I repeat, having lost count of them somewhere.
“It’s going to take a while longer, maybe a few more weeks, to feel somewhat normal, but I think it’s safe to say at this point you did it,” he says, gently getting my top free from my IV. Now utterly bare, he keeps his eyes on mine, turning and placing my hands on his shoulders for support before turning to start the shower.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
“Like I look,” I counter.
“I mean inside,” he whispers as he palms the water to test the temperature as my eyes roll down the perfection in front of me.
“I’m—” My words die as I continue to feast on him. Before me stands a man in his prime, every part of him cut muscle and tanned flesh. His rippling skin is heaven beneath my palms. So virile and alive, I can’t help but voice it.
“Tyler,” I rasp out, “you are so beautiful.” I caress his shoulders as he turns back to me, his expression pinched as his long exhale tickles my nose and chin.
“Appreciate the compliment, but that’s not how youfeel,” he drawls.
“I feel so much right now, but I’m so very happy you are here,” I admit honestly.
“Me too,” he utters before palming my naked hips and sighing. “In the spirit of keeping things honest, I can’t help what might or might not happen down below, okay? So, if you get an accidental cock salute, General, we’re going to ignore it.”
I bite my smile and nod, the fatigue already setting in as he gently guides me over the top of the tub and under the shower without tangling my IV.
“Tell me if at any second you feel faint,” he orders.
I nod again, feeling useless, as he places my palms on his shoulders and quickly begins to lather my hair. We both stand beneath the stream for long seconds, the feel of his fingers heaven as the coconut scent fills the air.
“I’m not going to make you talk to me,” he finally speaks, keeping his eyes intent on his task, “but I’ve got both ears open for whatever you feel up to discussing.”
I train my eyes between his pronounced pectoral muscles and the deeply inked tattoo etched into one before lowering my palm over it.
“I was looking at this when I woke. What does this stand for?” I ask, tracing the skull and Roman numerals. “I thought it was a Marine tattoo, but it does not look Marine.”
“You truly don’t know?” he asks, genuinely surprised as he scrubs my scalp.
“I’m not as up to date as I once was.”
“You?”He quirks a skeptical brow.
I shake my head.
“Huh ... well, it stands for Global Response Staff or the GRS. The numerals represent each letter’s numeric place in the alphabet.” He grips my pointer, bringing it to the first set of Roman numerals. “G,” then moves it to the second, “R.” I glance up at him as he moves it to the third set. “S.”
He releases my finger as I keep my palm on the tattoo, running my hand over it. His eyes keep and hold mine as a few seconds tick by before he grabs the loofah hanging from my plastic shelf.
“Soap?” he asks, sorting through the bottles behind me.
“Gold and white bottle,” I answer absently, entranced while gently tracing his tattoo before his eyes dip to mine. The look in them reading dull? Bored? Irritated? As his nostrils flare in ... annoyance? Anger? “So, not a Marine tattoo?”
“The opposite actually,” he says, wetting and roughing the loofah with soap to make suds, “it’s a lot like my raven tattoo. This”—he covers my palm briefly with his—“doesn’t exist.”
“Tell me.”
