Three hours later, after a long visit in a crowded waiting room where he’d held her against him, a few tests that had shown she had pneumonia and a script for antibiotics that he’d filled for her at an all-night pharmacy, Violet finally slogged through her house for the bedroom.
Her throat was so dry; she desperately needed a bottle of water. And she’d dearly love to lose her bra.
She managed only to drop facedown into her bed, on top of the comforter. She missed the pillow.
It didn’t matter. For someone who never got sick, she’d gone all out. Pneumonia. They should call it “debilitating weakness” instead.
Hogan stood over her. She pulled together enough energy to say, “Thank you. Lock the door on your way out.”
Instead she felt him tugging off her sneakers.
Her eyes popped open; she was sick, not dead. “What are you doing?”
“I won’t steal your shorts, so relax.” After removing her shoes, he lifted her as if she weighed nothing. Holding her with one arm—something she couldn’t help but notice—he turned down her bed and tucked her in.
When he walked away, she felt like crying.
She, who cried about as often as she got sick, which was never.
But instead of leaving, he came right back with the coveted bottle of water. “Here, let me help you.” Sitting on the side of the bed, he slipped an arm beneath her and levered her up, put the bottle in her hand and supported her while she drank. “Better?”
“You know,” she whispered, “since we’re doing this, I may as well go all in.”
“All in?”
She was in a bed—her bed—with Hogan Guthrie right next to her. Not ideal circumstances, but still... “Help me out of my shorts.”
Across her back, his arm tightened until she thought she could make out every lean, hard muscle.
Maybe it was lack of oxygen caused by the pneumonia, but she heard herself say, “Unhook my bra, too—I’ll take care of the rest. And thanks in advance.”
“Um...”
“It’s uncomfortable. I usually sleep naked, so—”
Letting her recline again, he quickly stood, then stared down at her with a gaze so intent she would have blushed if she’d had the energy.
After struggling over onto her stomach, she waited. Silence ticked by, and then the bed shifted and Hogan’s hands, so incredibly large and warm, slipped up her back. She felt a brief tug and the bra cups loosened.
Heaven. She muttered, “You’re pretty good at that. Guess you’ve had lots of practice.”
“Don’t try baiting me right now. You’re not up to it.” One by one he slid his hand up her arms, beneath each short sleeve of her T-shirt, and pulled the straps down and over her elbows, freeing her arms.
He turned her to her back, gave her a long look with his incendiary blue eyes and said softly, “I believe in finishing the job.”
She could barely keep her eyes open, but awareness burned through the lethargy as he reached under her shirt, hooked a finger in the front of her bra and tugged it out and away.
All the while, those hot blue eyes of his stared at her body.
Through a hazy gaze, Violet watched him look at her now-freed bra. It was beige with black lace and tiny polka dots, making him smile slightly before he tossed it onto her rocking chair. He wasn’t above copping a feel—this was Hogan, after all—so his palm coasted across her ribs, her waist and over her stomach.
He drew in a breath, held it and opened the top snap of her shorts.
As he slowly tugged down the zipper, she said, “If I wasn’t sick—”
He growled. “I know.”
“—we wouldn’t be doing this.”
That made him laugh. “I think you enjoy torturing me.”
“Sometimes,” she admitted. And why not? His presence tortured her plenty.
He finished stripping off her shorts, then took his time looking at her in great detail. “Your panties match your bra.”
“I’m aware.”
He pulled the sheet up and over her, and when she shivered, he layered on the comforter. Now more detached, he said, “They’re sexy.”
Yup, she knew that, too. Since, by necessity, she was forced to be more celibate than not, wearing sexy underthings was her balm, her way of reminding herself that she was still an attractive, healthy woman.
Bracing one hand on the nightstand, the other on the back of the headboard, Hogan loomed over her. “You’re sexy.” He kissed her forehead in a most sexless way. “Do you need more ibuprofen? A cough drop? Anything else?”
She needed to get well. She needed a man.
She needed Hogan Guthrie, but she wasn’t a stupid woman, so she tried to never court trouble. “No, and thank you again.”
“Try to get some rest.” He turned out the light and left the room, pulling the door behind him until it almost closed.
Violet turned onto her side, snuggled tight and faded into sleep.
HOGAN STEPPED OUTSIDE the front door, but didn’t secure the door behind him.
He had no intention of leaving.
God, the sight of her in nothing more than a snug T-shirt and boner-inspiring panties will be forever burned on my brain.
Her nipples had been visible through the thin cotton of the top, making his damned mouth water. And her skin, especially over the gentle curve of her belly, had felt like silk. Warm silk.
The urge to brush his mouth over her, to inhale her scent, had been nearly impossible to ignore. But despite his more recent lacks, he wasn’t completely lost to civility, so he’d tucked her up and escaped.
No, he definitely wouldn’t leave her.
Sitting on the front step of her porch, he called Colt first.
Without a single sign of sleepiness, Colt answered, “What’s up? She okay?”
It was the middle of the damned night, practically morning, so Hogan asked, “Why aren’t you in bed?”
“I was, but I was also waiting to hear from you.”
“You’re there alone?”
“No, I sneaked in three girls. Make it four. Uncle Jason and Honor never noticed. I mean, there’s what? Thirty feet separating the houses? And Honor called twice to check on me, but I completely fooled her. I hid all the girls under my bed.”
“Smart-ass.” Hogan grinned. Colt was, by far, the best part of him.
Colt laughed as he said, “It’s just Diesel and me.”
The dog was good company, and good protection—not that Colt needed it. “I won’t be home tonight at all, but I’ll check back in the morning.” Briefly, he explained about Violet and that he didn’t want to leave her alone in case she needed anything.
Colt said, “At least she doesn’t make you hide under the bed.”
Frowning, Hogan wondered at his joke. “Don’t make more out of this than there is.”
“I won’t.” With definite amusement in his tone, Colt added, “I know you do goodwill sleepovers with