Page 38 of Contingently Yours
Lucas
I haven’t been this stressed out since the twins got food poisoning when they were nine. I know it was just a thorn and that the antibiotic shot I stuck in Andrew’s ass should be working its magic soon, but it’s troubling to see such a vivacious man brought so low. Low and delirious.
His demonic tone has me nearly jumping out of my skin as he rolls over on the cot and latches onto my wrist. “Snuggle me!”
“But you’re burning up.”
His fingertips dig deeper into my flesh, showing a surprising amount of strength for someone I practically had to drag all the way back to the bunkhouse. “Snuggle! Me!”
Jesus. Is his head going to spin around next?
“Fine, just…give me a second.”
Stripping down to my underwear, I watch him shiver, clutching the sheet around his body.
First, he said he was hot. Now he says he’s freezing.
I’m pretty sure his fever is coming to a head, but damn it, he’s going to give me a heart attack in the process.
If I had a helicopter here, I’d fly his ass to a hospital like a protective mother hen.
Watching someone you don’t hate being so miserable is hell on the nerves.
What the heck does he do when he’s unwell at home, with no family or partner to take care of him?
My heart practically pulls me under the thin cover with him.
Wrapping an arm around him is the only thing I can do to bring him comfort.
I’ve never felt more helpless. Reaching around me, he latches onto me like a baby koala.
He lets out a contented sigh through his shuddering, like just my touch brought him some peace.
It’s strange to feel needed. I don’t think Shannon relied on me emotionally for anything. Maybe that was part of the problem, or at least a red flag. I can’t begrudge her looking for what she needed elsewhere.
I’ve never felt like I was Andrew’s equal. Knowing I can provide him with something makes me feel like I have worth and a little less helpless to the addiction to him that’s taken hold of me.
His head burrows underneath my beard, and he murmurs, “Soft. Warm.”
Running my hand down his back, I try to soothe him.
I want to give in to my instincts to place tender kisses on his sweaty brow, but I’m wary.
Does he have it as bad as I feel like I do, or is it all just lust and the high of our success on this trip?
Because right now, this feels like the kind of thing you do with someone you want to grow old with.
Tending to them when they’re ill, even if all you can do is hold them.
I really like holding Andrew when he’s not prickly.
Just as much as I like the way he held me the last few nights when we fell asleep. God, I want to let go.
I want to laugh at his jokes without having to hold back the way I did the night we celebrated in Harlow’s Landing. Is there a chance of that ever being possible without ending up looking like the fool Shannon and Mark made of me?
How far does this go? What happens when he’s done exploring, like the way we experimented in pleasuring each other with our mouths last night?
I shudder now right along with him, remembering the feel of him in my mouth.
The feel of me in his. His sultry, encouraging instructions removed any insecurity I might have had about being bad at it.
He’s quickly become my shadow—an extension of myself that I look for each second of the day.
But, like he said, I have the girls’ wedding next week.
Our lives are back there waiting for us. What happens then?
Everyone back home thinks I’ve stayed single because I’ve been moping over Shannon for the last four years.
It hurt. Don’t get me wrong, but I wasn’t moping.
The thought of disconnecting myself from whatever this is with Andrew, however, feels like it would be an amputation of a vital organ.
I’m starting to wish I hadn’t discovered he isn’t an asshole.
I laugh a bitter sound, shaking my head. It’s absurd, I know. We could barely tolerate each other a few weeks ago. And now I can’t imagine life without the guy.
“Shh,” he mumbles against my chest. “Sleep time. Sleep.”
I laugh again, but this time it’s a soft, earnest sound. Everything he does has become endearing. I give in, placing a kiss on his mop of golden hair, telling myself fate will sort everything out sooner or later.
“Goodnight, Andrew.”