“This is helping,” I admit, opening my eyes to find him still watching me. “For science, right?”
He laughs, the sound rich and genuine. “Exactly. For science. Nothing sexier than controlled breathing exercises.”
But his eyes tell a different story—pupils dilated, gaze heated as it traces over my flushed face. I wonder what I look like to him right now, sweat-dampened and disheveled, so far from my usual perfectly composed self.
“You’re staring,” I murmur.
“You’re beautiful,” he replies without hesitation, the simple honesty of it more disarming than any of his practiced charm. “Even half-delirious with heat, you’re the most composed woman I’ve ever met.”
I laugh, the sound edged with hysteria. “Composed? I’m falling apart.”
“Gracefully,” he insists. “You’re falling apart gracefully. It’s impressive as hell.”
Another wave of heat washes through me, stronger than before, making me gasp. Caleb’s hands twitch at his sides, clearly fighting the instinct to reach for me.
“Breathe,” he reminds me. “In for four.”
I try, I really do, but the air catches in my lungs as another pulse of need courses through me. His mouth is right there, lips full and expressive, and all I can think is what that tongue do? Because if he can talk like that, all smooth and controlled, what else can he do with that mouth? And god, his hips—I’ve seen him move, the casual grace in his stride. Those hip thrusts must be devastating in bed.
“Elle,” he says, my name a warning and a question. “Your scent just?—”
“I know,” I cut him off, mortified. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he says roughly. “Just... keep breathing.”
The door opens then, saving me from whatever inappropriate thing might have come out of my mouth next. Adrian enters, carrying a tray with what looks like tea and more of those blessed cooling packs. His eyes flick between Caleb and me, assessing the situation with his usual precision.
“Everything alright?” he asks, voice carefully neutral.
“Breathing exercises,” Caleb explains, standing and creating distance between us. “For scent management. Seems to be helping.”
Adrian nods, accepting this explanation as he sets the tray on the nightstand. “The resort kitchen sent up some herbal tea. Chamomile and something for the fever.”
“Thank you,” I manage, voice steadier than I feel. “That’s thoughtful.”
His gray eyes study me, taking in my flushed face, the damp hair clinging to my neck. Without comment, he reaches for one of the cooling packs, breaking the seal to activate it.
“May I?” he asks, gesturing toward my forehead.
I nod, not trusting my voice. He sits on the edge of the bed where Caleb was moments ago, and gently, so gently it makes my chest ache, presses the cooling pack to my forehead. The relief is immediate and profound, a soft sound escaping me before I can stop it.
“Better?” Adrian asks, voice rougher than usual.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Thank you.”
A drop of sweat trails down my temple, and before I can brush it away, Adrian does, his fingers cool and precise against my heated skin. The touch is brief, clinical almost, but it sends electricity racing through me all the same.
“Your hair is damp,” he observes, frowning slightly. “It will make the fever worse if it stays against your neck like that.”
Before I can respond, he’s reaching for something on the tray—a hairbrush, I realize with surprise.
“May I?” he asks again, always so careful with boundaries.
I should say no. This crosses every professional line we’ve ever established. But the thought of his hands in my hair, of cool air on my neck, is too tempting to resist.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He moves behind me on the bed, maintaining careful distance between our bodies as he gathers my damp hair in his hands. The first brush stroke is so gentle it’s barely there, a whisper against my scalp. The second is firmer, more confident. By the third, I’m fighting not to lean back into his touch like a cat being petted.
