Page 152 of Rush the Edge

A forced swallow works down my throat as I stare at her wobbling lip. Two blue, glassy eyes stare at me from inside my arms, and I feel her pain like it’s my own.

“Let’s get you into a bath.” I’m flying blindly, acting on pure instinct and nothing else.

I reach forward and turn the water on, making sure the water is lukewarm. She’s already hot enough, a steaming bath won’t do her any wonders. She nods quickly, and I hold her in my arms until the water rises farther.

When it’s finished, I sit her up to help shed her clothes. Her movements are slow and weak, which does nothing but worry me further. I keep my shorts on, discarding my shirt before I pick her up. It takes everything in me not to run my eyes past her shoulders to gaze at her perfect breasts, bare and ready for the taking.

Not now.

“What are you doing?” she quietly asks, eyes opening just far enough that she can see I’m still half-dressed but slipping us both into the tub.

“Taking a bath.”

A soft laugh that comes out as a breath floats from her mouth. “Your clothes are on.”

She shivers when we enter the water, and I hold onto her tighter. “There has to be some sort of barrier between us or else I might accidentally slip inside of you.”

Her light laughter tells me she thinks I’m kidding.

But I’m not.

I wait until her trembling limbs calm before I move her so her back is resting against my chest. It gives me a perfect view of her body, my eyes moving directly below her belly button.

Smooth, perfect, and mine.

I shut my eyes, willing my dick to stay soft.

“Daisy?” I rub her thighs, massaging the muscles.

She breathes out the word, “Yeah?”

“How long have you been feeling bad?” And why didn’t she tell me?

Her loud swallow catches my ear over the rippling water. “A couple of days.”

“And on and off fevers for about a week?” I ask.

She tenses. “How do you—” Her words fade, and her shoulders relax. “You looked in my journal.”

I run my palms up her legs and grab onto her hands. I interlace our fingers and squeeze before massaging each knuckle with light pressure. She relaxes against me farther, her legs opening a little and her rising chest slowing.

“Why didn’t you say something?” I ask her.

I notice the water stops dipping near her breasts. “Daisy.”

She lets out a shaky breath, and I glance at her mouth. The trembling of her bottom lip cuts me in every which way.

“Daisy,” I whisper.

She chokes on a silent sob.

“I don’t want to be in a flare,” she admits through a choking cry.

I’m quick to wipe her tears with my thumbs. I nod against the side of her face, trying to understand.

“I don’t want to take steroids,” she cries.

I read somewhere that, sometimes, patients with Lupus can come out of the flares on their own.

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