Page 81 of Roulette Rodeo
The bathroom feels smaller suddenly, more intimate, like the steam has created a private world just for us.
"You should shower," I say finally, voice softer than intended. "You're going to catch a cold standing there in wet clothes."
He shrugs, the motion making his still-damp shirt cling to muscles I'm trying very hard not to think about.
"I'm a man. I don't get sick from a little rain?—"
The sneeze cuts him off mid-sentence, loud and sudden enough that we both freeze. Then I'm grinning, I can't help it, the timing too perfect.
"You were saying?"
"That doesn't count."
"It absolutely counts."
"It was dust. Duke's fur. Anything but—" Another sneeze, this one followed by a sniffle he tries to hide.
I look him up and down, taking in the muddy jeans, the shirt that's still damp despite being inside for at least an hour, the way his hair is curling at the edges from the moisture.
"You need a shower," I declare.
"I can't leave."
"Why not?"
"Your legs might stop working again." He says it so matter-of-factly, like it's obvious. "You could drown. I'm not leaving you alone in water when there's a chance you could have an episode."
My heart does something stupid in my chest.He's worried about me.Actually, genuinely worried about my safety, not my value or my performance ability or my fuck-ability, but my actual wellbeing.
When was the last time someone worried about me like that?
Mom. It was Mom.
I think about it for a moment, weighing options, consequences, the wisdom of what I'm about to suggest.
Three years of keeping men at arm's length, of never being alone with an alpha without cameras or witnesses, of protecting myself by never giving anyone the opportunity to take what I wouldn't give.
But Shiloh's already had opportunities.
In the storage closet, in the penthouse, in the clearing. He's bigger, stronger, could take whatever he wanted, and I'd have no chance of stopping him.
But he hasn't.
He's carried me when I couldn't walk. Caught me when I fell. Brought me nail polish options even if he can't tell them apart.
He's standing there worrying about me drowning in a bathtub, and somehow that's the thing that makes my decision.
"Okay, cowboy," I whisper, and my voice comes out huskier than intended.
The bubbles provide coverage, but they're starting to dissipate, leaving more skin visible beneath the water's surface. I can see his eyes track the movement, see his pupils dilate slightly, see him swallow hard.
"Why don't you join me then?"
like a sniper tracking a target. The way he finds excuses to be back in the guest room, watching her rest, dream, or do anything really, if that was his newfound mission.
Pathetic…
I sink into my desk chair, the leather still warm from my body heat, and pull up our security system out of habit more than necessity. It's something I do throughout the day—checking locations, monitoring perimeters, ensuring everyone is where they should be.
