Page 52 of No Turning Back
"Okay, I've got something," I announce, keeping a safe distance. "We need hydrogen peroxide, baking soda, and dish soap. And we need to mix it up fresh."
Sam nods grimly. "There's a garden hose on the side of the house. Can you turn it on for us first? We need to rinse before the solution."
"I'll get right on it," I say, hurrying to the side of the house. Thespigot is rusty and stiff, but I manage to turn it, hearing the water gurgle through the pipes. I drag the hose toward Sam and Blue, who both look utterly miserable.
"Here," I call, tossing the end of the hose to him, keeping my distance. "I'll get the ingredients for the de-skunking."
I rush back inside, my mind racing through what we need. In the kitchen, I rummage through cabinets, finding baking soda and dish soap easily enough. The hydrogen peroxide takes longer, but I finally discover it in the bathroom under the sink.
When I return outside with my arms full, Sam has already started hosing down Blue, who looks betrayed by this unexpected bath.
"According to Google we need to mix one quart of hydrogen peroxide with a quarter cup of baking soda and a teaspoon of dish soap," I explain, setting everything down on the porch steps. "And we need to use it right away before it loses effectiveness. I can mix it up in this bucket," I say, grabbing an old plastic pail from beside the porch. "But Sam, you can't exactly keep your clothes on."
He looks down at his soaked clothes, his expression a mixture of embarrassment and resignation. "You're right."
I hesitate, then nod decisively. "Okay, here's what we'll do. I'll hose you both down, then apply the solution. How about you strip down."
His eyebrows shoot up.
"Not completely!" I clarify quickly, feeling heat rise to my cheeks despite the ridiculous situation. "Just your outer clothes. They're completely contaminated."
I measure the ingredients into the bucket, stirring the mixture with a stick I find nearby. The solution fizzes slightly, releasing a clean, chemical smell that's infinitely better than eau de skunk.
"Ready?" I call to Sam, who's managed to kick off his boots and is unbuttoning his flannel shirt.
I watch transfixed as he unbuttons his shirt one button at a time. He's not wearing an undershirt, so with each button that comes undone, more skin is exposed, tanned, rugged skin stretched over lean muscle. My mouth goes dry. This is ridiculous. We're dealing with a skunk attack, for heaven's sake. I shouldn't be noticing the way his chest narrows to his waist or how his shoulders flex as he shrugs the shirt off.
"Quinn?" Sam's voice snaps me back to reality. He's looking at me with a mixture of amusement and desire. "The solution?"
"Right. Sorry." I grab the bucket, grateful for something to focus on besides his bare torso. "Stay there and I'll bring it to you."
I approach cautiously, breathing through my mouth to avoid the worst of the stench. Blue whines pathetically nearby, her fur still dripping from the initial hosing down.
"Do the dog first," Sam says, gesturing to Blue. "She's more miserable than I am."
I kneel beside Blue, working the solution into her fur with gloved hands. Her pitiful whines tug at my heart, but I keep scrubbing, focusing on the areas that got hit worst. The smell lingers, but seems to be fading with each application.
"I think that's as good as it's going to get, girl," I say, giving her one final rinse with the hose. I can't tell if it worked completely, but there's definitely improvement. I offer up a silent prayer that the worst of it is gone, then unhook her collar. "Go on, you're free."
Blue shakes violently, sending water droplets flying in all directions, then takes off across the grounds. She rolls in the grass, rubbing herself against the ground and bounding around like she's trying to outrun the memory of the skunk.
I turn back to Sam and my breath catches. While I've been occupied with Blue, he's stripped down to his boxers. I stay kneeling, suddenly aware of how vulnerable this position feels. My eyes travel up his legs, taking in the powerful muscles of histhighs. Jesus, he's never missed a leg day, has he? The black boxers are stretched tight; I can see the outline of his huge d-
Sam clears his throat and with burning cheeks I spring up.
"My turn," he says, a hint of challenge in his voice.
He smirks, and for a moment I forget about the smell, about Blue, about everything except the way water droplets are sliding down his chest.
"I can do it," he says, reaching for the bucket.
"No," I say quickly, then slower, "It'll be better if I do it, you know."
He nods and turns around. I start at his back, hating the gloves between us. His skin is warm beneath my touch, muscles tensing as I work the solution into his shoulders. I try to be clinical about it, efficient, but there's nothing clinical about the way my pulse races when my fingers trace the curve of his spine.
"This isn't exactly how I imagined getting your hands on me," Sam says, his voice low and rough.
I nearly drop the bucket. "Is that so?"
