Page 63 of Misconduct Zone

“Why are you here?” I ask, and he leans back in surprise.

“I live here,” he says, but it sounds like a question.

“But the team has a game.” I motion as if he can see the team.

“I’m too sick.” He sheepishly turns away when my face must give away my disbelief. “If I developed a fever, the team said I couldn’t play. There was no way in hell I was leaving you alone, but it didn’t matter since I spiked a fever right before we had to report to the hotel.” His fingers trace a nonexistent pattern on the bed.

“You are not sick,” I state the obvious.

His warm hazel eyes lift to meet mine. “That’s a matter of opinion, but I’m not too sick to make sure you’re better. Try a bite of bagel.”

To appease him, I eat half the bagel, each bite prolonging the impending conversation.

“Are you ready to thank me yet?” His dimple flashes at me but disappears.

I blink. “Thank you for staying with me.” Talking brings on a headache.

He chuckles. “Do you remember I told you when you didn’t want my help in Germany that you could hate me then and thank me later?” His tense shoulders hint he’s asking more.

“I was not a good patient,” I admit.

“Not nearly as bad as I was when you helped me through the worst of my withdrawals.”

“We are even now,” I say with clarity. His debt to me has been paid.

“This isn’t about keeping track, it’s about being what the other needs.” He places his palm on my leg, and it thaws my icy attitude. “I’m not leaving you.”

I snort and cover it with a cough. He’s hurt by my reaction, and I don’t blame him. Dylon has proven his devotion. No man provides personal care unless he is invested in that person. But I’m not sure that it matters if he cannot tell me the truth.

“Are you up for a shower?” His eagerness to continue helping surprises me.

I cannot wash the germs out of my system, but I would like to clean the film of sick clinging to me like another layer of skin. I nod and peel the covers back on the opposite side of the bed. Dylon rushes around to steady me.

“Careful. You’ve got sea legs, and dry land might be tricky,” he jokes.

I expect him to back off at the bathroom door, but he guides me in and starts the shower.

“You’re staying?” I wrestle the T-shirt over my head and almost tip over, but large hands on my waist keep me upright.

“I will keep telling you I’m not leaving until you believe it,” he whispers, as if he’s had to reassure me before.

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll get you sick?” I ask, stepping into the gloriously warm water.

“If I’m not sick by now, I’m never getting whatever you have.” He strips and stands guard behind my shaky body. “You spent at least forty-eight plus hours living in my armpit. Literally. Don’t ask me why that’s the place you chose because I didn’t smell very good, but you were…adamant about not moving.” His tone suggests there’s more to the story.

That explains how his scent became embedded in my soul. I inhaled it for days.

When I tip my head back to rinse the shampoo, I lose my balance.

Hands as familiar as my own, once again, keep me from falling. “I got ya.” One arm bands around my middle while he runs another hand through my hair, rinsing it under the water. He gives my body a quick scrub and dries my hair with a towel when we step out. Then, he hops back in to wash himself. “Sorry, I probably stank up your room, but it was hard to leave you.”

I watch him in the mirror instead of brushing my teeth. Muscles flexing in motion and so much skin. It’s a couple of shades darker than my pale complexion, even in the dead of winter.

My dick receives some excess blood but thankfully doesn’t get hard. But when Dylon turns and catches my stare, his cock hardens and juts out, pointing at me.

“Sorry.” He squeezes it, but it doesn’t go down. “He’s got a mind of his own, and he’s very happy you’re conscious and nearly naked.” He shrugs as if his dick has its own personality.

I continue watching him mutely. When I’m certain I’m clearheaded, I’ll ask about the lies and then decide whether to tell him about my past.

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