The Friend Zone (Game On, #2)(46)

I drift in and out as he leaves the room then comes back to give me painkillers and a glass of orange juice. His care has my heart clenching within the walls of my aching chest.

“Thank you,” I rasp past the needles in my throat. “You don’t have to—”

“Yeah, I do. I would never leave you like this.”

Gray takes my glass, then rounds the bed to the other side. Without pause, he unbuttons his jeans, and I try not to gape as they slither down his long legs and expose thighs that are truly magnificent. No, I will not check out his package, nicely held by a pair of blue boxer briefs. Before I can utter a word, he’s sliding in and gathering me up.

I’m not prepared for it, or the feel of his hands against my bare back. The touch sends little shivers over my skin but I snuggle in closer, wrapping my arm around his torso and resting my head on his shoulder with a whimper.

The only man who’s ever given me comfort is my dad, and that was in the form of awkward pats and general fussing with thermometers and medicines. Nothing like this. This is Gray. Strong, solid Gray, who smells like happy dreams. It feels good. So good that tears threaten.

“I hate being sick,” I mutter against his chest to hide my fit of emotion. “It sucks.”

His big body shifts and he makes a sound that I know means he’s smiling. “Sucks big.” His long fingers trace idle patterns along my back. “Poor, non-baby Mac.”

Closing my eyes, I let my hand wander. Despite my fever, my fingers are cold. I find a swath of Gray’s warm skin, exposed where his shirt rides up on his side. Gray lets out a small yelp, his flesh jumping away from my touch.

“Hell, Mac. Your hand is ice!”

“I know.” It sounds like a whine. “It needs warmth. Gimme.”

His abdomen twitches as I rub it, seeking his heat.

“Stop that!”

“Ticklish?”

He twitches again. “Yes.”

Intrigued, I explore the bumps and ridges that define his torso. I’ve never touched a body like his. A gross injustice that needs to be remedied because I’ve clearly been missing out. “Jesus, Gray, I can’t get over how cut you are. What do you do? Live at the gym?”

“Daily workouts and five hundred sit-ups a night might have something to do with it.” There’s a smile in his voice.

“Overachiever.”

“More like doing my job.” He ducks his chin to look down at me, his brows rising. “Are you complaining?”

Hell no. “Just feeling inadequately squishy.”

“I love your softness,” he says in a low voice. Slowly, his hand eases along the dip in my side, up and down, stroking me as if I’m the best thing he’s ever touched. It’s so lovely that I shiver, and he stops as if he’s just realized what he’s doing.

I ought to put space between us, but I can’t. Not when his body feels so solid, his skin smoother than silk. God, I could run my hands over his rippled abs all night and not tire of it.

But Gray sets his hand over my roaming one. “Cut it out, Mac.” His voice is rough, almost pained. “You’re killing me here.”

I didn’t think I could possibly burn any hotter, but I do. Trying to ignore the rush of embarrassment flowing over me, I duck my chin and burrow into his side—because I can’t let him go right now, even if my life depended on it. “Sorry.”

His hand relaxes, and he gives me a little squeeze. “It’s just… You’re touching my stomach. I’m gonna react,” he adds with emphasis.

His meaning hits me full force and I freeze, my heartbeat thumping in my ear. Does he mean…? The supreme urge to let my hand drift down and investigate is so strong that my fingers curl into a fist against his skin. It doesn’t matter if he’s hard as a post. The fact that he stopped me makes it clear that he doesn’t want to be.

And I cringe. I’m being so damn inappropriate, it isn’t funny. I’m like some creeper. Gah. It’s bad enough that I’d basically talked myself to orgasm on the phone with him. Oh, God, I can’t think of that now. I’ll curl up and die.

In vain, I search to say something other than, Your body is irresistible to me and I had to stroke it. I fall back on, “I’m sorry. I’m… I don’t know, twitchy. Did I mention how much I hate being sick?”

His laugh rolls over me. “Once or twice.” Almost absently his thumb draws a slow S over the back of my hand. “I get it. You want to move, but it hurts. You want to get up, but you’re too tired.”

A sigh escapes me. “Tell me a story.”

“Oh, God, like The Three Bears or something?” He sounds horrified.

“No. Ass.” Smiling, I poke his side, and get a nice yelp out of him. “About you. Something to take my mind off the fact that I hurt everywhere.”

“My poor little Special Sauce.” His big hand spreads over my hip, a comfort and a brand on my heated skin. “All right.” He’s silent for a moment. “When I was seventeen, I shit myself.”

A shocked laugh breaks free. “Gray! That’s disgusting.” I laugh again. “What kind of story is that?”

“The kind that will stop you from thinking about being sick, and me from thinking about you stroking my stomach?”

Well, that kills my laughter. Me and my damn roaming hands. “So, you were saying… About your lack of bowel control?”