Page 50 of Gorgeous

I nod like I understand what he’s feeling, but I don’t. I’ve never had a migraine before. “What do you need me to do?”

“I …” It’s like he gags at the thought of what he’s about to say but maybe it’s the nausea. He tries again. “I need help to get my clothes off.”

Oh.

To say I’m not eager to strip this man down, even in his weakened state, would be total bullshit. I will take what I can get, and if this is the only time I see Cade Jameson naked, then I will live on the memory for years to come.

“Okay. I can help you with that.” I refrain from adding, “With my teeth.” I feel like he wouldn’t appreciate the humor in our current situation. He pulls his tired body up into a seated position, his eyes pinched closed, his hands fisted at his temples. “Let’s get your shirt off first,” I suggest with a whisper.

He folds over on his knees in obvious pain and mutters out, “I’ll just shower with my clothes on.”

Since he’s being ridiculous, I do what any girl in my position would do. I grasp the hem of his t-shirt and lift it up his back, not even paying attention to the scars that discolor his skin. Without acknowledging what I’m doing, Cade pulls his hands from his temples so I can pop his head through his shirt.

“Do you think you can stand?”

He makes a noncommittal noise I take as a yes. I stand first and check the water temperature before I slide under his arm and help him ungracefully to his feet. We stumble but are finally able to lean against the wall for some extra support. Cade is trembling from what I assume is pain and I pray I never experience a migraine of this magnitude.

“I think I can get my pants,” he says. I wait as he tries removing a hand to slide his pajama pants over his hips and stops, sucking a painful breath through his teeth. Without asking, I place my hands on each side of his hips, letting him know my intentions. When he doesn’t protest, I slide the elastic band over the slight curve of his hip before cresting over his delicious behind. It’s even better than I imagined. Smooth and rounded, and perfectly sculpted by hours of hard work. I pick up the pace so he doesn’t think I’m the kind of girl who takes advantage of a horrible situation.

When he’s standing bare, his front unfortunately facing the shower, I clear my throat and ask, “Can you do the rest?” I wouldn’t be opposed to helping him wash his hair or scrub the hard to reach places if need be.

“Yeah. Thanks,” he mutters.

It was worth a shot.

“I’m gonna go make you some coffee. I’ll be back. Don’t lock the door.”

I fly down the stairs and use the single serving coffee maker, cussing at it the whole time about being a slow ass. It’s barely beeped that it’s finished when I snatch the cup and run up the stairs, spilling burning drops of liquid over my hands. It’s as cold as Frosty’s asshole when I enter Cade’s darkened vampire lair. I place the cup of coffee on his nightstand and knock on the bathroom door. The shower is off.

“Cade. Do you need help?”

He opens the door in only a towel, and I stare. Sue me. His body is a glorious work of art, all scars and honor. I’ll tell you one thing, my blood vessels are pumping just fine … to my vagina.

I guide Cade by the hardened bicep to his bed through the darkened room until his legs hit the mattress. “Sit,” I order in a raspy tone. He does, and I hand him the cup of coffee. “You need to drink some of this. I’m sure it tastes like straight-up ass but Anniston says you need to.”

He lifts a brow and manages, “You’ve tasted ass before?”

He’s fine.

If he can crack a joke, he’s okay, but he’s in a towel, and damp, so I’ll stick around and make sure. Just in case he needs help to get dressed. Yes, I’m courteous like that.

“You’re so funny. Drink it.”

He takes a few sips and makes a face. “I told you. Tastes like ass, doesn’t it?” He hands me the cup and closes his eyes, breathing deep.

The door cracks and I turn and see Tim with a bag.

His medicine.

I mouththank youto Tim before taking the bag and closing the door, already opening the bottle. Hovering under the bathroom light to read the label, I see he only needs one pill every four hours. I fill a glass of water and take it to him.

Immediately he says, “No.”

“You need it,” I argue with the idiot who’s doubled over in pain.

“It’ll put me to sleep.”

“Which is exactly what you need.”

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