Page 13 of A Cold Hard Truth

“What do you want to do?”

Remington sighed. “That wasn’t what I asked.”

Sebastian’s eyes dipped down to the place where Remington’s hand lay just above his knee. God, the man’s fingers really were ridiculously long. Did he have a hand fetish? Probably.

Fuck.

“I’d appreciate the help,” he said.

“I’m going to wash your face, then we’ll get you into bed so you can sleep this off.”

Sebastian nodded, and Remington raised his hands, carefully dragging the warm and wet cloth across Sebastian’s face. The heat felt good, sending pinpricks of pleasure down the back of his neck. He closed his eyes and went soft, a moan breaking out of his lips without permission.

Remington stilled, the hand around Sebastian’s leg tightening in the slightest, then he resumed his cleaning.

“There you go,” Remington said softly. He tossed the cloth into the sink and traced his fingertips over Sebastian’s eyebrows, smoothing them out.

“Remington,” Sebastian slurred, trying to make sense of all the syllables and letters that jumbled together in his mouth. “Was I dirty?”

Remington slid his hand up Sebastian’s thigh, breaking the contact about six inches too soon for Sebastian’s liking, then he hooked his arm around Sebastian’s back and helped him to stand. The room tilted, and Sebastian grabbed for Remington to hold him.

“No,” Remington answered, walking him back into the bedroom. “But it wasn’t appropriate to get you naked and into the shower.”

“You could have,” he rasped.

Remington turned him and eased him onto the bed. The sheets were a mess from the night before, and he went back easily, kicking the thick blankets away with his toes.

“That would hardly have been appropriate.”

Sebastian reached down and fiddled with the fly of his pants, unable to get the button out of the hole. He threw his arms out with a frustrated groan. “Can you help me?”

“Also not appropriate.”

Sebastian was drunk, but he could have sworn Remington’s voice had dropped an octave, that his words came out like sandpaper.

“Nothing about me is appropriate,” Sebastian countered. “I’m hardly proper. You can ask Rhys. Can you please help me get out of my pants so I can sleep? Isn’t that what you said I needed to do?”

Remington’s long fingers swatted his hand away and the button on his pants popped open in a flash. Remington tugged, Sebastian’s pants sliding to the middle of his thighs, then Remington stood, clearing his throat.

“You can manage the rest of it.”

Sebastian did, shoving his pants down and kicking them off. He grabbed the edge of his blanket and yanked it up, covering himself up to his chin. He closed his eyes, but the bed threatened to go sideways and throw him off, so he pried his eyes back open, blinking Remington’s shape into focus.

“Everything is spinning,” he muttered.

“I imagine so.”

“Can you make it stop?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Can you tell me a story?” he tried.

Remington chortled. “A story? Are you twelve, Sebastian?”

“Something for me to focus on besides this tilt-a-whirl of a bed I’m on.”

Remington sat back on the bed, smoothing a hand over the covers that blanketed Sebastian’s hip. Sebastian dared a blink, then stretched under Remington’s hand.