“I may not. I feel dizzy, Sammy. I want to lie down.”
“Soon.” He mopped her forehead and eyes, then he did what he could with her hair. All the while he bent over her, he kept her propped against his hip.
“Do you know,” she breathed weakly, “that the cloth you’re using was hand-monogrammed in Milan?”
“You don’t say,” he said, and couldn’t have cared less. He eyed the front of her robe. It needed a washing, too. “I have to hand it to you,” he sighed gently, “when you do things, you do them big.” Slipping an arm around her back, he helped her stand. “We’re going upstairs now. Stomach steady?”
Susan nodded. She felt as limp as her hand-monogrammed towel and had to lean heavily against his side. He wasn’t much taller than she, perhaps three or four inches, but he was far stronger. Just then, she was grateful.
Once upstairs, he led her through the bedroom to the bathroom and immediately turned on the shower.
“I want to lie down,” she protested weakly.
“Once you’re clean.”
“I can’t stand up in there.”
“I’ll hold you.”
“You’ll get wet.”
“I could use a shower.” Steam was rising in the stall; he adjusted the heat of the water so that neither of them would get burned. “It’s been a long night for me, too.”
“You can’t come in my shower.”
“Are you gonna stop me?” he asked. Setting her against the glass shower door with a knee between her legs, he whipped his sweatshirt over his head. He stepped away from her only long enough to kick off first his sneakers, then his jeans.
She made a strangled sound. “Sammy?”
“I’ll leave my briefs on, okay?”
“Just let me go to bed.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“No!” She closed her eyes and murmured, “No-o-o—”
But he was already untying her robe and letting it fall to the floor. She was wearing a pair of panties that were briefer than his. Swearing softly, he stripped them off. Then, without allowing himself the luxury of looking at her, he helped her into the shower.
Susan had never been so humiliated in her life. It wasn’t that she was ashamed of her body, but having Sam Craig see it like this was not quite the way her fantasy went. If she had the strength, she would never be letting him do this to her, but she didn’t have the strength. Her limbs felt like rubber, her eyes wouldn’t focus, and her head hurt, all of which conspired to keep her leaning on him for support.
He concentrated on washing her face, her hands and her hair, and assumed that the run-off would take care of the rest. When he was satisfied, he turned off the water, ushered her out, and wrapped first her, then himself in towels that he grabbed from the floor. Sitting her on the commode, he scrubbed the moisture from her hair with a third towel. Then, rather proud of his self-discipline, he stood back and rubbed his hands together. “A fresh nightgown. Where would I find one?”
“I have to lie down, Sam.”
“Nightgown?”
“In the closet. The drawers on the far right.”
He was in the midst of looking when she stumbled her way from the bathroom and collapsed into bed. He figured the nightgown would wait. By the time he reached her, she’d curled into a ball on her side and buried her face in the pillow.
“Better now?” he asked, covering her up.
She grunted.
“Can I get you anything?”
She didn’t answer.
