Page 38 of Weather Girl

“What next?”

“Shirt,” I say, because my arm is begging to be free.

“Cute pattern,” he says about the tiny clouds. “Very on-brand.”

He gets to work unbuttoning, starting at the top, his face close to mine. Long lashes and citrus and body heat. He pauses after each button, the briefest hesitation, and I realize it must be because he doesn’t want to hurt me. He’s maybe six inches taller than I am, so he has to duck his head, but every couple buttons, he flicks his gaze to mine, as though checking in with me. Each time, I give him what I hope is a reassuring half smile. This is okay, that smile says. I am not at all aroused by this.

When he reaches the last one, I let out a long, slow breath. It takes some wincing and maneuvering to extricate my arms from the sleeves, and then he folds the shirt next to my belt and sling. A split-second too late, I fling out my right hand to cover my bra.

I’m in a hotel room with Russell Barringer, wearing jeans and a pink lace push-up.

“Do you, uh...” He swallows hard, staring at my tiny pile of clothes. “Do you want your bra off, too?”

With the three brain cells I have left, I consider this. Do I want Russell to take off my bra? It’s a rhetorical question—obviously I do. And undoubtedly I’d be more comfortable sleeping without it.

I pause for too long, imagining his fingertips running along the straps, sweeping up to the nape of my neck and then back down my spine.

“If you could just unhook it in the back, then I should be able to get off on my own.” Freudian slip. “Get it off on my own.”

“I can do that.”

The warmth of his hands on my skin is too good. Like everything he does. Again, he takes his time. Logically, I realize he can’t notice my nipples tightening to almost painful peaks, and if he hears the hitch in my breath, he probably assumes it’s because of my injury. I melt into his touch as he unhooks me with deft fingers, wondering what he’d do if I turned around. If he’d take me in for a few moments, admiring every curve and dip and freckle, or if he’d be so overcome with want that he’d need his mouth on me right away. Under different circumstances, I’d want him to push. To pull. To grip me hard and sear my skin.

Unfortunately, the meds swimming through my bloodstream are stronger than my libido.

“And the necklace?” His fingers ghost over the chain, and I wonder if he can sense my shiver. When I nod, it takes him a few seconds to unclasp it. He places it on the bureau while I grab my pajama shirt with my right hand, attempting to cover my breasts with my bad arm.

An image from this afternoon pops into my head, unbidden. A laugh bubbles up my throat—I can’t stop it.

“What is it?” he asks, looking pointedly at the window curtains.

“I almost got into the sauna with Torrance completely nude earlier,” I say, and this makes him laugh, too. “I swear I’m not a prude, I just... did not expect to see my boss naked today?”

“You really have had a rough day.”

“So trust me. This is a lot less awkward than disrobing in front of Seattle’s favorite meteorologist.”

Except then I have to move the hand on my breasts to get it into the shirtsleeve.

“I’m not looking.” His voice is a low scrape, sounding somehow across the room and right up against my ear all at once. I am no longer laughing. “I swear.”

If I told him he could look all he wanted, I’m not sure I’d want him to admire me first. His fingers could do all the appreciating I needed.

I press my thighs together, let out a shaky breath. Maybe my libido is perfectly fine.

Finally, only my jeans are left. As he unbuttons them, a thumb whispers across the skin just below my navel, that soft touch nearly making me gasp.

“Sorry!” he say, pulling back. “I wasn’t—I didn’t mean—”

“No, no, it’s okay,” I say, trying to reassure him. “You can keep going. I’m just—ticklish, I guess.”

“I can be gentler.” He hooks his thumbs through the belt loops and guides my jeans down my legs, his palms tracing my hips. Gentler, it turns out, is fucking torture.

Then we’re done, and I find myself wishing I’d dressed for an expedition to Antarctica.

“Thank you.” My first instinct is to hug him, but I haven’t figured out how to do that with one arm. So I inch forward, dropping my forehead to rest lightly in the space just above his heart.

As though realizing what I’m attempting to do, he puts his arms around me, uncertain at first. Then he pulls me closer, tucking me against him, and I’m half certain I could fall asleep in this position if I weren’t so wildly turned on. A few fingers skim up my spine, back and forth in a hypnotic motion. My eyes fall shut. With each stroke, I imagine he’s touching me somewhere else. My lower lip. The inside of my wrist. A birthmark on my left hipbone.

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