Hunger fills me, a yearning to know everything.
I face forward again. “Please,” I say, my voice coming out softer than I intend.
His footsteps approach.
Then his fingers fall on my top button. It occurs to me now he may not be in any better shape than I am to unbutton my dress, but the thought is barely out of my head before I feel the first button loosen. Then the next.
Leave it to Monty to maintain expert skills at undressing a woman, even when he’s unwell.
Although…
Now that I think about it, despite all his previous talk about being a womanizer and a rake, I’ve never seen him with a lover. Not once. Not a single dalliance during The Heartbeats Tour. Not a single concrete anecdote about past or present paramours.
Only salacious teasing and a reputation for rejecting advances from the ladies at work.
The next button comes loose, and his fingertips skim my back, just above my bralette. I suck in a gasp as his fingers flinch away.
“Sorry,” he whispers.
“It’s all right,” I say with a chuckle, my attempt at lightening the mood. Yet somehow it only gets tenser. A heavy, vibrating, fluttering energy settles in my chest, tightening my lungs. At the same time, I feel safe. Comfortable. Trusting. What a curious contrast. It takes all my effort to keep my voice nonchalant. “I could hardly expect you to unbutton me without making contact with my skin.”
He says nothing, only loosens the next button. I could probably undo the rest on my own, or at least shrug out of my dress now, but I can’t find the will to tell him that. I look at him over my shoulder again. That intensity has returned to his face, and the next time his fingertips skim my back, over my silk bralette this time, he doesn’t flinch away.
A strange sensation burns low in my belly. It’s something I haven’t felt before, not when another person is touching me, at least. It’s the way I feel when I read sexy scenes in books or look at romantic artwork. It’s how I feel when I’m posing before the mirror, preparing to sketch?—
My breath hitches again as I understand what this might be.
Is this…arousal? But what could be arousing me? The feeling of someone touching me, or…
OrMontytouching me?
“There,” he says, voice soft as he steps back. All my buttons are loose now. He turns around to give me privacy—not that I care for it, considering my confusion over the double standards regarding human nudity—and I let my dress drop to the ground. I rush to my linen closet for towels and a blanket, wrapping one of the towels around my torso before handing the rest of the bundle to Monty.
“Get comfortable on the settee,” I say and set about lighting my stove and hanging our clothes on the drying line. Slowly, my apartment gets a little warmer. I’m already feeling warm enough, which may be partially due to the flush of heat I felt when I was aroused, but I worry about Monty.
By the time I return to him, he looks worse than ever. He’s slumped on my settee, body trembling beneath the blanket I gave him. How the hell did he unbutton my dress in this state? I thought he was feeling better after we got inside my apartment. I crouch down, still dressed in only my underclothes and the towel, and press my hand to his forehead. It’s even hotter than it was before.
I glance at his still-soaked hair. “You didn’t even properly dry yourself.”
“Sorry,” he says with a sheepish smile.
“What are you apologizing for?” Taking up one of the barely used towels, I perch on the arm of the settee, just behind his head, and begin drying his tresses.
“For taking advantage of your hospitality.” His words are slightly slurred.
“You’re not taking advantage of anything. I’m the one who ordered you in here on threat of biting. But if it assuages your guilt, we can count this as the favor I owe you for winning the game.”
“Ah, right.” He releases a weak chuckle. “You had fun, then?”
A grin curves my lips as I squeeze the towel around his hair. “I did. But you really shouldn’t have run in the rain with me if you’re so sensitive to it.”
“I’ll always run in the rain with you.”
I frown down at him and his uncharacteristically sentimental tone. “You truly are a mess right now, aren’t you?”
He makes a noncommittal sound followed by another “Sorry.”
“Who knew Monty Phillips was a master of apology when he’s sick.” I remove the towel from his hair and lean over him. His eyes are closed, his expression pinched. He continues to shiver even though my apartment has warmed significantly.
