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“What the hell are you doing?” I say and wince at my aching head.
He frowns. “What the hell does it look like I’m doing? I’m getting you into bed.”
“Oh no, you aren’t.” My hands cover my mouth, which is probably ineffectual, but I don’t know what else to do. This also muffles my words when I continue to yell at him. “Get out, Gray. You cannot be here.”
He actually looks hurt, his open expression twisting into a wince, and I solider on, because he’s obviously being thick. “Gray, you cannot get sick! You need to stay healthy to play, you big oaf. Now, go!” I wave one hand in the direction of the door, while still covering my mouth. “Out with you.”
Does he listen? No. He laughs as though I’m the oaf. “Oh, please, I never get sick. I’ve had my flu shot.”
I roll my eyes and snort, which really isn’t advisable with a stuffed nose.
“And have the immune system of a god,” he adds.
“Fuck! Don’t say that! Quick, knock on wood.” I flail my arms. “Knock on your big, block head.” In my outrage, I start to cough and almost lose a lung.
His brows draw together in a frown. “Let it go, Mac. There is no way in hell I’m leaving you like this.”
“I’ll be fine. Really.”
A world of skepticism lives in his eyes. “Yeah, not buying that. Now, quit arguing. I’ll be careful with your germ-ridden ass, okay?”
“I so want to blow a raspberry at you right now. You’re just lucky I care about your football career too much to risk spraying germs.”
“I’m touched.” He purses his lips when I sway on my feet. “Hell, you shouldn’t even be walking around.”
His arm wraps around my waist, his other arm snakes under my thighs, and then I’m airborne, all six feet of me. As simple as that, as if I’m no heavier than his bag.
Because arguing has left me weak and whiny, I rest my pounding head against his shoulder and enjoy the novelty of being carried.
“Don’t scold,” I say as he puts me down in my bedroom. “I was getting the door.” I give him a pointed look which he ignores in favor of pulling back my sheets. The bed swims before my eyes, glimmering like an oasis in a sea of misery. But I’m so hot, the flannel PJs I’d thrown on to answer the door suffocate me. Hesitating, I glance at Gray. “I can take it from here.” The floor tilts.
Gray’s arm slips around my shoulder. “Sure you can, Special Sauce.” Cool blue eyes study me for a moment, and then he starts to ease my pajama pants down my hips.
“Gray!” I make a furtive attempt to hold onto them.
He pauses, looking up at me with brows lifted in confusion. “What? You’re burning up. And you have underwear on, right?”
“Yeah. But—”
“It’s not any different than seeing you in a bathing suit.” He gives me another look, grinning now. “Unless you’re wearing naughty panties?”
“You sound way too hopeful there, bud.”
“I always hold out hope for sexy underwear. Step.”
I do as told, way too aware of my bare legs and the fact that I’m sweating like a farmer. But he’s right. I’m wearing basic boy briefs that cover me more than a bikini would, and frankly, I’m too sick to put up a fuss any longer.
Gray turns into Mr. Brisk Efficiency, neatly pulling off my shirt and not even looking at my bra as he handles me into bed and covers me with cool sheets. With a sigh, I sink into the bed, and Gray closes the curtains against the harsh daylight.
I drift in and out as he leaves the room then comes back to give me painkillers and a glass of orange juice. His care has my heart clenching within the walls of my aching chest.
“Thank you,” I rasp past the needles in my throat. “You don’t have to—”
“Yeah, I do. I would never leave you like this.”
Gray takes my glass, then rounds the bed to the other side. Without pause, he unbuttons his jeans, and I try not to gape as they slither down his long legs and expose thighs that are truly magnificent. No, I will not check out his package, nicely held by a pair of blue boxer briefs. Before I can utter a word, he’s sliding in and gathering me up.
I’m not prepared for it, or the feel of his hands against my bare back. The touch sends little shivers over my skin but I snuggle in closer, wrapping my arm around his torso and resting my head on his shoulder with a whimper.
The only man who’s ever given me comfort is my dad, and that was in the form of awkward pats and general fussing with thermometers and medicines. Nothing like this. This is Gray. Strong, solid Gray, who smells like happy dreams. It feels good. So good that tears threaten.
“I hate being sick,” I mutter against his chest to hide my fit of emotion. “It sucks.”
His big body shifts and he makes a sound that I know means he’s smiling. “Sucks big.” His long fingers trace idle patterns along my back. “Poor, non-baby Mac.”
Closing my eyes, I let my hand wander. Despite my fever, my fingers are cold. I find a swath of Gray’s warm skin, exposed where his shirt rides up on his side. Gray lets out a small yelp, his flesh jumping away from my touch.
“Hell, Mac. Your hand is ice!”
“I know.” It sounds like a whine. “It needs warmth. Gimme.”
His abdomen twitches as I rub it, seeking his heat.
“Stop that!”
“Ticklish?”
He twitches again. “Yes.”
Intrigued, I explore the bumps and ridges that define his torso. I’ve never touched a body like his. A gross injustice that needs to be remedied because I’ve clearly been missing out. “Jesus, Gray, I can’t get over how cut you are. What do you do? Live at the gym?”