Page 52 of Christmas Comeback


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Will slipped out from under me and leaned against the vanity with both hands. “I’ve got it from here. Thank you.”

I nodded, still wary, but I stepped back and let him shut the door. “Don’t lock it,” I said. “Just in case.”

“Alright.” Ten seconds later, I heard the clack of the curtain rings sliding along the shower rod and a thumping sound I assumed to be Will sinking into the chair.

While he showered, I quickly changed the sheets on his bed, figuring he’d appreciate fresh ones. I was slipping the elastic of the last corner under the mattress when I heard a muffled cry.

“Maureen.”

My chest tightened, and I dashed into the hallway.

“Will!” I shouted through the closed door of the bathroom. I shifted on my heels, waiting for his reply. When none came, I knocked, still with no answer. I grasped the handle. “I’m coming in.”

The steam hit like a force field, the thick air stifling. Through the cloudy white of the snowman shower curtain, I could make out the shape of him, thankfully still seated in the chair. Had he fainted?

“Maureen,” his voice croaked.Thank god!“I’m sorry. I just ran out of energy.” He labored to get the words out. “I thought I was managing, but then, it was like my battery died. I worried I was going to fall out of the chair.”

“It’s okay. We’ll get you sorted.” Damn, it was hot. The foggy mirror dripped with condensation. I felt the ends of my ponytail plastered to the back of my neck as I hurried to shuck off the denim button-down I wore over my tank top. “What can I do, Will? How can I help?”

“I just need to… Can you help me…finish?”

“Finish.” I said the word with no inflection, but my mind immediately went somewhere inappropriate. My jaw ticked. Maybe it was because I hadn’t slept properly in days, but seriously—a smoking-hot man, naked in the shower, was asking me to help him “finish.”

Maureen, what is wrong with you? Will is in distress here. I blinked away my naughty thoughts, but the momentary mental lapse into levity allowed me to gain my equilibrium despite the temperature of the room. And my blood.

Will continued, unaware. “I was able to wash my body, but I ran out of steam washing my hair. It’s still full of shampoo. But every time I try to rinse it, this wave of dizziness hits, and I just can’t. That movement of raising my arms above my head… It’s gonna make me throw up.”

“Are you okay if I open the shower curtain? I don’t think I can help you without actually, you know, seeing you.”

“Yeah.”

I pulled back the curtain to find Will slumping in the chair. Foamy suds covered his blue-black hair, though it looked like he’d slicked the strands back to keep the soap from his eyes.

He’d also thrown a washcloth over his lap.

Keeping my eyes determinedly northward, I contemplated my options, eventually deciding it would be easier if I rinsed his hair using water from the sink. It would have been a tight squeeze for me to hop into the shower stall with him, not to mention I would either have to get naked or soak my clothes to do so. I reached out to grab the water handle as I told him my plan.

Once I’d turned off the shower, and with the door to the hallway open, the steam cleared quickly. I found a clean cup in the cabinet and turned the sink on lukewarm. Will tilted his head back. Minutes ticked by as I poured cup after cup of water over his silky curls.

His eyes stayed closed, and it was impossible not to look at him as I went about my task. The water sluiced over his tight body, down the long line of his exposed neck, across the indents of his collarbone and chest, pooling around the washcloth in his lap. I watched, hypnotized, as soap bubbles traveled and popped over the wiry dark hair covering his thighs.

An angry purple bruise covered most of his right hip, its edges already fading to a greenish-yellow. It reminded me of the doctor’s revelation that Will had metal pins in his leg, and upon examining his left side, I could make out the faint line of a surgery scar across his thigh extending to above his knee.

I developed a rhythm of filling the cup from the tap, bringing it over to pour wherever soap remained. Head. Shoulders. Chest. Thighs. The scrap of fabric in his lap. Carefully. To make each cup count. Still, his eyes stayed closed, those heavy lashes commanding my attention as I worked above him. Two days’ worth of stubble shadowed his jaw. Back and forth, I pivoted from the wet floor of the stall to the bathroom tiles, resulting in the occasional unintentional brush of my breasts against the crown of his skull.

He sank into my ministrations, shoulders relaxing, humming in contentment as I raked my hands through his hair, coaxing the last bits of shampoo away. His reaction prompted me to massage my fingers against his scalp. At the deeper touch, a small sigh escaped him, and the washcloth over his cock twitched.

His eyes opened quickly.

“Sorry,” he said, both hands coming down over his groin.

“Don’t worry about it.” Turning my back to him, I released my own uneven breath. I filled another cup of water, running it over his neck. “I think all the shampoo’s out now.”

“Thanks.”

“Let me help you back to bed.”

Without preamble, I placed one of the large towels I’d brought in earlier over his lap. I coaxed him to use my shoulder for leverage to gain a standing position. Once he stood, I bunched the ends of the towel together at his lower back—getting a split-second view of the two perfectly round mini-basketballs that comprised his ass—before bringing the gathered ends around for him to hold in front of himself.