Bad Romeo (Starcrossed #1)(84)
Author: Leisa Rayven

He frowns. “Taylor, I’m flattered, but I’m sick. Maybe later?”

“You’re hilarious. But seriously, get under the covers. You’re shivering.”

“That’s because it’s cold.”

“It’s really not.”

“Whatever.” He crawls into bed and pulls the covers up to his chin. “I’m just going to close my eyes for a minute. All that standing up in the shower kind of took it out of me.”

“Of course it did. You’re an actor. You’re not used to working that hard.” He glares. “Aaaand that’s my cue to go get you food and drugs.”

A little while later, I return with a tray laden with instant chicken soup, a glass of pineapple juice, the bottle of cough medicine, the antibiotics, and Tylenol.

Holt is fast asleep.

“Hey, wake up.”

He groans and turns over.

I put the tray down on his nightstand and gently shake his shoulder.

“Come on, Holt. Your drug pusher has arrived. You have to wake up.”

His head lolls to the side, but he doesn’t stir.

“Oh, no,” I say in a breathy voice. “I spilled soup all over myself in the kitchen and had to remove my shirt and bra. I need you to cover my naked breasts with your giant hands.”

He jolts awake and looks at my fully clothed form in confusion for a few seconds before flopping back onto the pillows and sighing.

“That was mean and unnecessary. You don’t promise a dying man boobs and then renege.”

“You’re not dying.”

“If I was, could I see your boobs?”

“No. That right is reserved for my boyfriend, and since that’s not you—”

Shit, Cassie. Don’t blackmail him with your boobs. Low blow.

“Sorry, that was…”

“It’s fine,” he says before clearing his throat and rubbing his eyes. “You’re right.”

He looks down at his hands, and I’m aware we need to talk about stuff, but now isn’t the time.

“You need to sit up,” I say as I grab two Tylenol and the juice. “Take these. Then eat your soup.”

He does as he’s told.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s finished most of his soup, taken his antibiotics and cough medicine, and drunk all of his pineapple juice.

I take the tray into the kitchen, and when I return, his eyelids are drooping.

I pull the covers up to cover him. “How are you feeling now?”

“Sloshy,” he says before yawning. “And kind of stoned. What the hell is in that cough medicine?”

“Magical sleep voodoo.”

“Oh. I thought it might have just been a sedative of some sort.”

“Yeah. That, too.”

“It’s strong.”

“Good. You need sleep.”

He yawns again and looks up at me, and it’s just wrong how handsome he still is.

Before I can leave, he grabs my hand with his too-warm fingers.

“Stay,” he says as he brushes his thumb across the back of my hand.

“You need to rest.”

“I will. Just stay with me. Please.”

In his current state, I know I can’t deny him anything. I remove my shoes and go around to the other side of the bed. He turns toward me as I climb on top of the covers.

“After our fight on Wednesday,” he says, “the last place I thought you’d be this weekend was in my bed.”

I nod. “I have to admit, when I’ve thought about finally seeing your bedroom, I imagined it would be under far more sexy and far less mucus-y conditions.”

“What, my pleurisy cough and laryngitis aren’t turning you on? What’s wrong with you, woman?”

Oh, Holt, if you only knew how much you still turn me on, you’d be embarrassed for me.

He puts his arm under his head and looks up at me. “Is it wrong that seeing you in my bed makes me want to do things to you, even when I’m this sick?” His words are slurred, and I wonder if he’d have said such a thing without the drugs in his system.

“Ethan, we agreed—”

“No, we didn’t,” he says and touches my thigh. “You told me we had to stop touching each other if we weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend. I didn’t agree to it. You walked off before I could tell you it was a fucking horrible idea.”

“It wouldn’t change things if you had.”

He looks down. “I know. I stood outside your apartment in the rain for nearly an hour, trying to figure out how fix it. When I realized I didn’t have the guts to knock on your door and tell you I was an idiot, I was so fucking angry with myself I came home and got drunk. Then I passed out on the couch, still soaking wet. Woke up in the middle of the night freezing my ass off.”

“God, Ethan…”

He runs his hand up to the waistband of my jeans and blinks long and slow before pushing a finger beneath the hem of my shirt.

“Your skin is so soft,” he whispers as he splays his hand over my stomach. He moves his fingers up until he’s touching the underside of my bra. It makes me want to forget all about his germs and shove his hand either higher or lower.

Instead, I take in a steadying breath and put my hand over his, stopping him.

He’s sick and full of drugs. He’s allowed to have a lapse in judgment. I have no excuse. I’m just horny.

“Ethan, we can’t.”

“I know.” He sounds tired, and his words slur together. “ButIwanto. Somuch. Because … not touching youis…” He pauses, eyes closing. “It’s … I hate it.”

His head slumps, and his hand falls away, and I thank God he’s asleep before he can hear my groan of sexual frustration.

Holt sleeps fitfully, tossing and turning as the fever and drugs work their way through his system. He alternates between shoving me away as he spread-eagles on the bed, and clinging to me with desperate intensity.

After an hour, he starts mumbling and groaning.

“Cassie…”

His eyes are closed, but he’s reaching for me.

“I’m here,” I say as I touch his face. His forehead is hot and slick with sweat. “I’m just going to get a washcloth for your head, okay?”

His eyes snap open, heavy and full of panic. “You’re leaving?”

“I’ll be right back.”

“No … please.” He pulls my hand to his chest and presses his forehead against my arm. “Don’t leave. Please, not you.”