Page 47 of Make Me Yours
I don’t respond.
I can’t.
Not when the memory of his body against mine during the shoot flashes through my mind.
The drive is quiet, but it’s not the kind of silence I can sink into. I keep shooting him worried looks at red lights, watching the way his head leans back against the seat, his features drawn and pale beneath the bruising already blooming at his temple.
By the time I pull into the underground garage, I’m practically leaping from the car. I round the front and open his door, offering my arm without a word. He doesn’t fight me, but I can tell it grates on him to lean into me as we walk.
His balance is off and his movements are sluggish. He tries to hide it, but I can feel it in the way he presses more weight into my side with each step we take toward the elevator.
Even with the doctor’s reassurance echoing in my mind, I’m still on edge.
That hit was brutal.
Once we make it into his penthouse, I steer him gently down the hall toward his bedroom. Waffles trails behind us like a tiny bodyguard, meowing once before hopping onto the bed and settling at the foot, her big green eyes locked on Steele like she knows something’s off.
I ease him onto the edge of the bed and grab a bottle of water from his nightstand, placing it next to the painkillers I find in the bathroom.
“You should rest,” I say, brushing my hand lightly against his arm.
He leans forward and braces his hands on his thighs. “I want to take a shower first. I feel gross.”
We were in such a rush to leave the arena, he didn’t get the chance.
“Okay, I’ll help you.”
His brows pull together. “I’m fine. I don’t need any help.”
“You have a concussion, Steele. Your coordination’s crap right now. I’d rather not pick your giant ass up off the floor because you slipped.”
He frowns and then pouts.
My lips twitch as I fight back a smile. “Come on, big guy. Trust me, you don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.”
The second the words are out of my mouth, a vivid image of when he stepped out of the shower in all his naked glory flashes through my brain. I wince and shove the memory away.
He doesn’t respond, just allows me to loop my arm around his waist and steer him toward the bathroom. The second we step inside the luxurious marble space, he grips the doorframe as his balance wobbles.
“See?” I huff. “This is exactly why you need my help.”
He arches a brow. “Do you really think you’d be able to stop me from falling?”
I glance at the sheer wall of muscle beside me, and snort. “Not a chance. I’d end up crushed beneath you like a bug.”
A smirk tugs at his lips. “That’s the last thing I want to happen.”
Without a word of warning, he grips the hem of his T-shirt and pulls it over his head before tossing it to the floor. I freeze, my gaze catching on the bruises that bloom across his ribs and the defined lines of his chest.
Before I can process anything else, his sweatpants hit the tile.
Then his boxers.
“Steele!” I choke, whipping around to face the towel rack. “You could’ve given me a little bit of warning!”
He laughs, completely unfazed. “What? I thought I didn’thave anything you haven’t seen before,” he teases. “Come to think of it, you have seen the goods.”
A strangled sound catches in my throat as my gaze stays glued to the brushed nickel towel rack in front of me. I press my lips together, refusing to touch that comment with a ten-foot pole.
