Page 34 of Not Our First Rodeo
I pick up the medicine and put two pills in his hand. “You need to take these. They’ll make you sleepy, but they’ll make you feel better.”
His tired eyes settle on me. “I feel better now that you’re here.”
“Then imagine how much better you’ll feel after the medicine.”
“Probably good enough to put a baby in you,” he drawls, and then looks at me pointedly. “Oops, too late.”
A laugh barks out of me, loud in the quiet of the night. “You’re delirious.”
His grin hitches higher, the same one he wears when he’s drunk and handsy. The one that always somehow leads to me with my pants off. “Maybe.”
I shake my head at him, fighting a smile. “Take your medicine, Beau, and drink your hot dirt water. I’m going back to bed.”
“Wait,” he says, his tone more serious, a little desperate. His eyes settle on mine. “Stay with me. Please.”
It’s thepleasethat does it. No, that’s a lie. I would have stayed without theplease. All I needed was an invitation.
“Okay.”
His shoulders relax, losing tension I hadn’t even noticed had stiffened them, and he pats the spot beside him. I walk around the foot and climb beneath the blankets. The sheets are cool against my legs. Even when it’s freezing, I can’t sleep in pants. I hate the way they feel twisted against my legs, so I always end up in shorts or just an oversized tee. Tonight, thankfully, I’m in shorts, but I don’t miss the way Beau’s gaze travels the expanse of my legs as I slide into bed.
It makes my nerve endings catch fire.
I really can’t be thinking like this in bed with my sick husband.
I watch as Beau takes his medicine and dutifully drinks his tea, working hard to keep a respectable distance between us. The problem is, I’m used to sleeping in a king-size bed, but this one is a queen, and Beau is a giant. When he bends over to deposit the empty mug on the bedside table and turn off the light, his thigh presses to mine beneath the blankets, and I have to fight to keep from shivering or jumping away.
My skin feels too tight and my nerves feel too sensitive, and I’m acutely aware of how Beau’s leg hair feels against my thigh. I’m even more aware of what happened the last time we were in a bed together and exactly how long it’s been since then.
I think I might combust.
Before I can wrench myself out of the bed and run across the hall with my tail tucked between my legs, Beau slides down beneath the covers and places his head in my lap. I freeze, but he just says, “Will you scratch my head?”
The heat coiling inside me dissipates, and I slide my hand into his hair, running my nails against his scalp. He hums, the sound muffled by the blankets. I can feel the feverish heat of him through the sheets, hear the wheezing sound he makes when he breathes, although it’s a little better since drinking the tea.
“Thank you for taking care of me,” Beau whispers, and my heart pinches. His breath is warm against my thighs, his body so familiar against mine.
“I’ll always take care of you, Beau.”
He rolls his head to look up at me. I can barely make out his features in the moonlight filtering through the windows. “Will you let me take care of you?”
The question hits me in the solar plexus and I have to swallow heavily, weighing my words. “I’m working on it.”
He nods and slumps back onto my lap, his hair tickling my exposed skin. “I can live with that.”
“Thank you for being patient with me,” I say, scratching his scalp lightly. I don’t miss the way he makes a little keening noise in the back of his throat, his body sinking deeper into mine, relishing the feel of it.
He’s quiet for a long moment, and just when I think he’s fallen asleep, he says, “I’ll wait as long as you need me to, Els, as long as you promise you will come back to me one day.”
Outside, the wind howls, and the clouds block out most of the moonlight, illuminating only a small sliver of the room. It feels like I’m speaking directly into the darkness when I say, “I never wanted to be away from you. I was trying…” I trail off, not knowing how to finish my sentence without revealing too much. I already feel raw from this conversation, and I need to be strong enough to care for him.
“What were you trying?” he asks softly. He’s not looking at me now, but that doesn’t make this conversion any easier.
I shake my head, even though he can’t see me. “Nothing.”
For a moment, I think he might push, like he’s been doing more and more often of late. I think he might ask again and again until I tell him the truth. But he must be tired, because he just says, “Okay.”
The silence stretches between us for a long time after that, but it’s not awkward. I keep scratching Beau’s head, and his breathing slows until I think he’s asleep. I’m tired, too, feeling dragged under by the tempting pull of drifting off in the same bed as Beau, of getting truly restful sleep again. The kind I haven’t gotten since the last time he was in my bed.
