Page 163 of Vicious Temptation

“You don’t have to do this,” he says.

“What happens if you lose your balance and crack your head open in there? Because if you think I’m carrying your giant ass to the emergency room, you’re out of your mind.”

A tired chuckle rumbles out of him.

“Now let me help you. The sooner we get through this, the sooner you can go back to dying dramatically on your couch.”

“I am not being dramatic.”

“You left your apartment door unlocked.”

“That feels unrelated.”

“It isn’t.”

He laughs again, and again, I count that as a victory.

When I finally finish undressing, his attention has drifted from my face. Of course it has.

“You’re unbelievable,” I mutter.

His eyes lift back to mine, and amusement breaks through some of the exhaustion. “I’m sick, not dead. And you have great tits.”

I roll my eyes, clamping my mouth shut to keep from smiling, and nudge him toward the shower.

“Save your strength, Braga.”

His hand finds my waist for balance. “Bossy.”

“Someone has to be. Now get in before I start charging by the hour.”

Warm water cascades over us as we step beneath the spray. I’ve imagined showering with Thiago before, but none of those scenarios involved the flu, a fever, or the need to make sure he didn’t pass out and suffer a concussion.

Steam quickly fills the bathroom, fogging the glass. I squeeze body wash onto a white washcloth and work it. When I reach for him, our eyes meet. He watches as I press the cloth against his chest and slowly drag it across his skin.

“I can do that myself, you know.”

“Considering you nearly fell over trying to take off your underwear, I respectfully disagree.”

I continue washing him, working carefully over his shoulders and arms. The warm water seems to help, easing some of the tension in his body. He closes his eyes for a moment, and without his usual stubborn attempt to convince me he’s fine, I can see how exhausted he really is.

“You don’t have to take care of me, Remi.”

The sincerity in his voice makes me glance up.

“I know.”

“Then why are you?”

I drag the washcloth across his shoulder and shrug. “Because someone should. And you really needed a shower.”

I expect him to laugh or make some sarcastic comment about my bedside manner, but he just watches me. There’s no humor on his face, just traces of disappointment, and it makes me wonder if I said the wrong thing. His gaze stays on mine, giving me the feeling that my answer wasn’t enough, or maybe it just wasn’t the one he hoped to hear.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

We both know it isn’t nothing, but he doesn’t push, and neither do I.