Page 39 of Faking the Pass

“No.” Rosie shook her head then abruptly brought her hand up to her forehead.

“I’m not nauseous—or I wasn’t until I did that,” she said. “I just wanted a shower really badly. I feel so grimy, and I thought it would make me feel better.”

Her voice broke, not sobbing but thoroughly miserable as her words came out strung tightly together.

“But I can’t seem to do anything without being a total pain in the ass. And you’re having to do every little thing for me, and you need to go in to work with the team, but you’re having to stay here with me because I’ve got no one else, and I just don’t know how my life has come to this.”

There was a woeful sob as she dropped her face into the cradle of her hands. “And my hair is dirty.”

She was so adorable in her misery, I almost smiled. But I bit my lip and ran my hand over the back of her downturned head.

“It’s really not that bad. And you’re not a pain, Rosie. Everybody gets sick and needs help sometimes. What are husbands for, right?”

She sobbed again. “But you’re not… really.”

“Today I am. Hey, can you look at me?”

She lifted her face to show sorrowful eyes that pulled at my heartstrings and made me want to wrap her in layers of bubble wrap and build a moat around her to protect her from the whole damn world.

“I don’t really need to go in for practice, not every day anyway,” I confessed.

“I think they asked me to come in to make me feel better—because they know I want to contribute. This is actually the one perfect time in my life for me to be home, not going in to work with the team. It’s fine. Okay? Do you believe me?”

She gave a little nod. Her lower lip still protruded slightly, and I was possessed by the ferocious urge to lean forward and kiss that beautiful pout.

Instead, I rose and stripped off my shirt.

“What are you doing?” Rosie sounded panicked.

“Don’t worry. My shorts are staying on. I’ve got an idea.”

I offered her my hand and pulled her to a standing position then guided her into the back corner of the shower.

“Hold onto the walls here for just a sec, okay? I’m going to move the bench under the spray. You can shower sitting down.”

Dragging the heavy bench under the showerheads, I went back and led Rosie to it, helping her to sit carefully on it again. I set the washcloth and shower gel and shampoo beside her on the bench.

“I’ll stand behind you,” I promised. “And I won’t look. I’ll just be here in case you need me.”

“Okay,” she said quietly.

Moving behind her, I reached for the hem of the t-shirt she wore and slowly pulled it upward. Rosie didn’t stop me this time, raising her arms to allow me to undress her.

Though I’d promised us both it wouldn’t be, the experience was a major turn on.

Even Rosie’s back was sexy, smooth and curved-in at the waist.

She still had her panties on, and I wasn’t going to fight her on it if she wanted to shower in them. They didn’t cover that much anyway.

And of course I was looking. What was I going to do—close my eyes?

From my position behind her, Rosie’s ass on the bench was a perfect peach, round and juicy. I’d have given anything in this moment for a taste.

My mouth literally watered.

How was I going to spend several more weeks—possibly months—living with this woman and not be able to have her the way I wanted to?

Since I didn’t eat sugar, I never had the kind of food cravings I heard other people talk about. But Rosie’s sweetness was turning me into the worst kind of junkie.

Maybe that was what my problem was—she was an addictive substance, and the hits I’d taken on the island had hooked me for life.

Now I did avert my eyes as promised. I was only making it harder on myself by watching the water and soap suds slide down that silky skin.

I started going over NFL QB stats to distract myself.

Tom Brady. 89,214 career passing yards. Six hundred forty-nine touchdowns.

Drew Brees. 80,358 career passing yards. Five hundred seventy-one touchdowns.

Peyton Manning. 71,940 career passing yards. Five hundred thirty-nine TDs.

“Do you think you could help me with my hair?” Rosie asked, interrupting my mantra and yanking me right back into the present moment of painful temptation.

Her hair was foamy with shampoo.

“Um, yeah. What do you want me to do?”

“I can’t reach the hand sprayer to rinse it, and I don’t want to lean forward again to get my head directly in the stream. It made me kind of nauseous before when I did that to wet my hair.”

“Oh sure.”

Taking a step to the side, I grabbed the hand sprayer from its hook on the shower wall. I did my best not to look directly at the front of her body while doing it, but my peripheral vision was definitely living its best life.

Once I was safely behind her again, I pushed the button to start the flow of water and directed it at the back of her head.

“Tilt back a little so I can get the front of your hair,” I said. “I won’t let you fall.”

Rosie complied, leaning back slightly and raising her chin so the stream of water hit the top of her forehead.

And now I was getting a clear overhead shot of the front of her body. Her beautiful breasts gleamed in the shower lights, wet and delicious and begging for my mouth to cover them.

Her nipples, reacting to the water striking them, were pink and tight, and that mouthwatering situation was only getting worse.

Delving my hands into Rosie’s hair, I lifted the heavy sections, exposing them to the flow of water and rinsing them.

It was the most I’d been allowed to touch her since we’d returned from our honeymoon, and it was surprisingly erotic.

It was also not nearly enough. My entire body was tense, and my hands were literally trembling with desire.

“This alright?” I asked in as steady a voice as I could manage.

Her response was more of a dreamy low hum than an actual “yes,” but I got the message.

My dick did as well, reporting for duty. Poor misinformed sucker .

In any other circumstance, this set of visual, aural, and tactile cues would lead to me stripping off the rest of my clothes and moving Rosie as quickly as possible from shower to bed, towels be damned.

Instead, I finished rinsing her hair then handed her a towel to wrap around her body and one for her head.

“Thank you, Presley,” she said. “That was wonderful. I hope you didn’t get soaked, too.”

“Yeah, I’m a little wet,” I said. “But it’s okay because after I get you back to the bed I’m going to take a shower myself.”

The coldest one of my entire fucking life.

When Rosie was safely back in bed, I checked my phone to see the status of the pharmacy delivery. The medicine was here already, waiting in my mailbox according to the video that accompanied the email.

I threw on a t-shirt and went to retrieve it then read the instructions and dosage information on the bottle. It said the tablets were quick-dissolving and to take them with water, so I shook a couple into my hand and took them to Rosie with a cold water bottle from the fridge.

Thankfully she wasn’t asleep yet. Her hair was still wrapped in a towel, but she’d put on the fresh t-shirt I’d handed her before leaving the room.

I’d also given her a pair of clean panties from her suitcase—which she’d never unpacked after the trip, though there was a dresser in the guest room where she usually slept.

Rosie took the pills then lay back again, smiling. “I do feel better after my shower, but I’m so tired now.”

“You want me to bring in the hair dryer and help you dry your hair?”

“No. I don’t even care,” she said. “I just want to sleep. Go take your shower.”

I did take one—an extra long one during which I could not keep myself from visualizing Rosie’s gorgeous wet body. Afterward I prowled the house restlessly, made some dinner, which she refused, then got ready for bed.

When I slid in beside her, she was asleep and smiling. She must have been feeling better, thanks to the medicine.

That seemed like a great thing until she rolled toward me and slid her arm across my midsection, pressing the front of her soft, warm body to my side.

Her head snuggled into the gap between my shoulder and chest, and my heart, which was supporting her cheek, began to hammer.

What the hell is going on?

Was she feeling that much better? And also no longer concerned about her precious contract and its onerous cockblocking clauses?

“I love you,” she murmured, and the hammer started pounding double time.

My hand involuntarily went to her face, cupping her jaw and tilting it upward so I could see her eyes.

They were closed.

She was still out, talking in her sleep. She didn’t even know what she was saying.

The doctor had warned the medication could cause bad dreams, but this wasn’t what I’d expected.

Is that what Rosie did in her nightmares? Tell me she loved me?

“Love you,” she repeated. “But I shouldn’t.”

Or maybe it wasn’t me she was dreaming about at all. Maybe she was still hung up on Randy, despite what he’d done to her and how much he still wanted to hurt her.

I guess I got it—love didn’t just vanish immediately, no matter how much you wished it would.

I should know.

Sliding her small hand over my abdomen and up to my chest, Rosie sighed and smiled again, tucking her head and snuggling deeper against me.

“Presley,” she whispered.

And my heart stopped.