Less than a minute later, she stood and squared her shoulders. Her face said she still worried about his condition, so she was trying to be completely appropriate and platonic.
Good luck with that, pretty girl.
“Where do we start? I’m assuming you can undress yourself?”
“Yep. Grab a towel from the linen closet in the hall and meet me in the bathroom.”
Brea almost looked relieved he’d given her something else to do besides watch him strip. “Sure.”
He winked her way, then headed to the bathroom and started the spray. Then he slid out of every stitch he’d worn—with the door wide open.
“I assume the blue one is okay. I—” She stopped in the doorway, blinking furiously as she stared at him. Her cheeks turned pink, her stare glued itself to his body, and her nipples went hard. “Oh, my goodness.”
He just smiled. “Sorry for the, um…reaction. You do this to me.”
Her gaze shifted down to his cock, standing tall and desperately ready to spend quality time with her.
Brea pressed her hand to her chest. “I…”
Clearly, she didn’t know what to say. “You?”
“Ah…wanted to know if you need shampoo.”
“Nope. But it might be a good idea for you to hold my hand while I climb in. You know, so I don’t lose my balance on the wet tile.”
“Right.” Her voice trembled, but she still didn’t move, just swallowed.
She was reluctant to touch him.
He backed off. “But if this is too much for you—”
“No,” she assured him in a rush, then approached, hand outstretched. Her cheeks had gone red. “I just didn’t expect to see you this…exposed.”
She’d thought he’d be somehow less naked?
Wiping the smile off his face, he stepped into the walk-in shower, then released her hand. The hot water sluiced down his body, washing away grime and sweat. He groaned.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “Does something hurt?”
Brea was a carer. She worried about people, often more than herself. As he reached for the shampoo, he really looked at her face. The dark smudges he saw under her eyes worried him. He didn’t remember seeing them before.
“Fine,” he assured. “I’m better every day. What about you? Tired?”
“I am. I don’t know why, just feeling run down lately. Suddenly, I want to nap all the time. It’s got to be the change in seasons and the fact we’ve had such gloomy skies this week.”
Maybe, but he didn’t like it. As soon as he finished showering, he’d stop yanking her chain and take care of her for a change.
“Have you been sleeping?” she asked, changing the subject.
He lathered his hair, then grabbed the soap to scrub up his body.
Brea was still watching.
“Not much.” Now that he was almost healed and getting good calories, he wasn’t constantly exhausted. That was great during the day. At night? The fitful hours sucked.
“Are you still having nightmares?”
“Yeah.” He turned his back on her, not eager to continue this conversational thread.
He’d been around other soldiers enough to know the symptoms of PTSD. He was a month out from his captivity. If the anxiety and bad dreams didn’t ease soon, that therapist his bosses at EM Security Management had forced him to start videoconferencing with would put a label on him that might persuade everyone to bar him from action.
One-Mile wasn’t having that shit.
“Do you want to talk about them?”
“No.”
“Pierce…”
As he managed his final rinse, his half-formed plan to soap up his hard cock and stroke it for her went down the drain with the suds.
Fuck, he hated that the mood between them was dead.
“Don’t worry.” He cut off the water.
She handed him the towel. “Of course I’m going to worry. If I didn’t, why else would I come see you every day?”
“Why do you?” he asked, wrapping the terry cloth around his waist.
A pretty flush that had nothing to do with the warm, humid bathroom rushed back to her cheeks. “Because you matter.”
“To who? My bosses? The guys I work with?” He stepped from the shower, challenging her. “Or to you?”
She frowned. “Of course you matter to me. Now sit so I can put this ointment on your back.”
One-Mile wanted to press her for more, but it was too many words to speak with his jaw wired shut. For now, he had to settle for the fact that he mattered to her in some way. He could build from that.
Instead, he bit back a surly growl and yanked the prescription tube from a nearby drawer, then handed it to her and lowered himself onto the closed lid of the commode.
Seconds later, she set the tube down on the adjacent counter and began to spread the thick antibiotic ointment across his back, focused on where Montilla’s whip had opened his flesh repeatedly over his twenty-two days of hell. Her fingers glided over his skin in a delicate brush that made him shudder in pleasure.