Page 43 of The Troll’s Summer Flame

And it’s as hot as the fire, in a different way. The air is burnt out of the room again, just by Gordon’s touch on my shoulders. “I don’t want to scare you,” he says, which both surprises me and tells me how much he’s been starved for love, for touch, for companionship. He’s not sure of my desire to be close to him, not even when my hands are beginning to massage his chest as we squish together in the small space.

“You don’t. I feel incredibly safe with you.” My hands slowly climb, and then smooth down. With his height and my perch on the sink counter, his waist is so close to me.

How can I be so tired, so sore, and so damn curious all at once?

“Then my answer is that I want to carry you, or touch you, or hold you all of the time. I’ve never—” he pauses, smoothing my hair back before his fingertips gently caress the line of my jaw, “I’ve never been with anyone like this. A partner. Mate.”

“Boyfriend. Girlfriend. Lover.” I try out the word and feel a sharp throb of desire sink into my core and burrow between my thighs.

“Lover? Well, there are ways, but... Not for a long time, I’m sure. I know my body wouldn’t be acceptable to yours. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt,” Gordon quickly explains.

Okay, well, looking at the size of him, I’m sure that he’d put previous exes to shame, but I don’t think it’s impossible. There are probably few humans—NBA players and pro wrestlers, mainly, who might come close to his stature. “I think we could love each other in lots of ways, and we’ll find out what works. I’m not worrying about it, and I don’t want you to, either. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“Good. Now, for the next however-many-minutes, I’m going to be your good little patient and do what you tell me, and then we’re going to curl up on my bed together and sleep. If you don’t argue, I’ll even tell Chopin to curl up on your chest.”

“But I want you to do that,” Gordon says, lips almost forming a pout.

“Hmm. Well. I think both Chopin and I might fit,” I laugh, and close my eyes as I sink into his arms.

I thought this was the worst night ever, but I think it’s about to become the best night of my life.

Chapter Ten: Care

Nudity has to be romantic. Glamorous. The lights have to be soft and just at the right dimness. The nightie on. Or the panties and bra screaming “slutty club kitty.” Nudity isn’t functional in a relationship.

Until it is. Until now. That’s when you can see if a guy wants to fuck you—or cherish you.

“You have to take that off,” Gordon says in a strangled voice, pointing to my dress. “I’m going to sanitize your bathtub, then put you under a cool shower. Get you clean and shampoo your hair. Then, I’m going to get you dry. It’s important to let your feet and hand air-dry, okay? After that, we can apply the burn cream and gauze.”

“I can do all of that myself,” I say, blushing.

Gordon crosses his arms. Sets that monolithic jaw. “No.”

“No?”

“I don’t want you to hurt your hand by rubbing it in the shampoo. It could irritate the burn. And I don’t want you standing in the shower longer than you have to, even once it’s cleaned.”

“I cleaned before I planned to go on vacation,” I mumble. This monster firefighter I have all the warm fuzzies for is offering to bathe me and clean my shower? I feel like that’s marriage material.

Or an excuse to get from kisses to third base and rounding home pretty damn quick. Either way, I find myself not minding.

“The burns are minor. If they get infected, they’ll be major problems. Two or three days of rest will turn into a hospital stay. You listen to me, and I’ll take care of you. I promise.” Gordon’s voice drops from stern to soft.

Well, what the hell am I supposed to do, aside from melt and nod? So, I nod and stay on my perch at the sink. I watch in awe as Gordon ferrets out cleaning supplies, strips off his shirt, and attacks my shower and tub as if it were filled with invisible germs personally plotting my downfall. He practically boils the suds away, filling the bathroom with steam.

Holy deltoids and tasty trapezius! The back. The shoulders. Gordon is a waterfall of rippling muscles, glistening with steam.

“Let me help you out of that dress, Andrea,” Gordon says, scrubbing his hands and arms under the shower, looking like the world’s hottest surgeon prepping to operate. Then, he turns the water cooler and holds out a towel from the towel hooks on the back of my door. “I’ll wrap you in this and hold you, okay?”

“What, in the shower?”

“Mhm.”

“In your jeans?”

Gordon stares down at his legs as if he forgot they existed. “Oh. No, they’re definitely not the best for the shower. I’ll wrap up in a clean towel.”