Holding Strong

But the timing was the worst.

Almost too drained to reply, she whispered, “You seeing me like this.” When he lifted up the back of her T-shirt, she braced herself. The first touch of that cloth felt like ice on her spine and she hissed in a breath that brought on a nasty coughing fit.

He stroked her, rocked her, made soft shushing sounds—those same husky sounds he’d made while holding her legs open and gently squeezing into her.

Remembering his size, the delicious sensation of being filled, Cherry ducked her face. “This sucks so badly.”

“I’m glad I’m here with you.” Holding her hair up with one hand, the cool cloth in the other, he stroked it from her nape all the way down her back to the top of her barely there underwear. “And I love your panties.”

She groaned. “If I’d known I was going to be sick—”

“Don’t say you wouldn’t have worn them.”

“I don’t own any other kind.” But by God, she’d have bought some briefs if she’d known it wouldn’t do her any good to tempt him.

He went still, then hugged her carefully before easing her to her back on the bed. “Stay put. I’ll be right back.”

She reached for the sheet, but he stopped her, saying again, “Trust me.”

Trusting him had nothing to do with the teeth-rattling shivers. “Hurry.”

She watched through gritty eyes as he went into the bathroom to rinse out the cloth.

Trying to concentrate on something other than her discomfort, she rasped, “Tell me about your dad.”

After a long pause, he said, “He’s a terrific doctor. Well respected.” He returned in less than half a minute and again sat beside her hip. He started on her legs, and sure enough, some of the awful chills let up so that she mostly felt lethargic and very achy all over.

She studied Denver’s face. With his head bent down, his wavy hair hung forward, concealing his high cheekbones. This late in the day, he had a very appealing beard shadow on his jaw and chin. His nose was narrow with a slight crook from once being broken. Long lashes framed his amazing topaz eyes.

And his mouth, firm and sexy... “Does he look like you?”

“He’s as tall as me,” Denver remarked while working to cool her down. “Athletic, but never competed.”

“Meaning he’s not all buff like you.”

Denver smiled. “Same features, but his coloring is different. Lighter than mine. He’s fit.”

As he leaned over her legs, she lifted a hand and stroked her fingers through his shaggy hair. Jogging under the afternoon sun had added golden streaks to the light brown color. It was just long enough to be held in a rubber band when he fought. “Bet he wears his hair different.”

“Military short.” He lifted one leg and moved the cool cloth behind her knee. “He doesn’t say much about my hair, but I know he doesn’t like it. My stepmother does, though.”

Cherry looked from his hair to his face and saw his lean jaw tighten. “Your stepmother?”

He tensed, then suddenly turned and lifted the front of her shirt all the way above her breasts. “Yeah.” For just a moment he cupped his large hand over her left breast, his thumb teasing dangerously close to her nipple. “You are so damned pretty.”

A sweet talker—who wanted to change the subject. “I look terrible.”

He bent to her breast for a soft kiss, almost stopping her heart. “You just look sick, honey—but not here.” He kissed her very briefly again, the press of his warm mouth gentle, and then he straightened. Gaze riveted, he touched the cloth over her upper chest, around each breast, down to her belly.

She squirmed, both from the coolness of the touch and from the absorbed way he looked at her body.

Tears burned her eyes and she sniffled. “I wish I wasn’t sick, damn it.”

One brow lifted. “I wish you weren’t, either.”

Melancholy weighed heavy on her, and she knew she had to ask. “Will this be it?”

With the cloth held still high on her inner thigh, his gaze locked on hers. “Come again?”

Scrambling away from his touch, she pushed her shirt down and pulled the sheet over her. Shoving her ratty hair back, she sniffled, feeling so dreadful it was almost unbearable. “It’s taken me forever to get you here, and now—” That awesome accusation got interrupted with harsh coughing that hurt all the way through to her back.

Denver left the bed to fetch a juice from the in-room bar.

“Don’t,” she wheezed. “It’ll cost a fortune.”

Ignoring that order, he twisted the cap off the bottle and again sat beside her. “My treat.” He tipped it to her mouth. “Come on, Cherry, drink.”

Since he gave her little choice, she did, swallowing down half the container before stopping.

He stroked his thumb over her bottom lip. “Better?”

She nodded. It was, but the insistent way he had of making her feel helpless was both sweet and a little unsettling. “Denver...”

“To answer your question, no, this isn’t it.” He set the juice on the nightstand before giving her a direct look.

Complaints disappeared under his scrutiny. “It isn’t?”

“Not by a long shot.”

“Oh.” A million questions came to her at once, but Denver spoke before she had decided where to start.

“Armie is picking up more juice. You need to stay hydrated. How’s your belly?”

“Fine.” She wasn’t nauseous, thank God. “Well, unless I move too fast.”

He cupped the back of her neck and looked into her eyes. “Head still hurt?”

“Some.” Growing in intensity, but she really didn’t want to come off as whiny. It was bad enough that tears kept pricking her eyes.

“What else?” When she didn’t immediately answer—what woman wanted to spend her first night with the man of her dreams by complaining?—he used both hands to hold her face. “You’re right, I’m not a doctor. But I’ve learned a lot from Dad, and from the sport.”

“The sport?”

“Sure. Fighters have to know their own bodies well enough to stay healthy. So quit stalling. Your head, your throat. I’m guessing your chest with that cough. What else?”

She didn’t think he’d let it go, so she admitted the truth. “Pretty much everything.”

“Body aches?”