Confetti Hearts (Confetti Hitched, #1)(73)

“That’s a hell of a lot of words.” He nods. “Yeah. Off. You’ve seen my cock far too many times for me to have any modesty.”

“Do you actually have a gram of that in you anyway?”

He gives me a crooked smile. “No. Is that bad?”

“Not at all,” I say fervently. “It’s one of your nicest attributes.” I consider him and then groan and hold out my hand. “Okay. Help me up.”

He hauls me up and watches as I kick off my shoes and then strip off my jeans, T-shirt, and jumper. I put my hands on my hips, watching him expectantly.

He winks and takes off his boxers. His cock is soft but the girth is unmistakable against his thigh, and even as I watch, it thickens.

“Don’t look at it,” he advises me. “You know how much it likes you.”

“I’ll take my underwear off to make you feel more comfortable,” I tell him earnestly and promptly drop my briefs.

He smirks. “You’ve such a giving nature, Joe.” His words are light, but his eyes are hot as they scan my naked body.

It feels like years since we were last together, and I feel my own cock harden.

There’s an intent silence for a couple of seconds, but then he takes pity on me. “Come on. Into the shower.”

“I can’t believe I’m not mad at you,” I observe as we walk into the bathroom, and he turns on the shower.

He looks back, startled. “Why the fuck would you be mad at me? I’m not aware of doing anything wrong in the last ten minutes.”

“That’s stretching it.”

He turns up the heat, and steam begins to billow. “So why would you be mad at me, then?”

“You’re seeing me like this. Weak.”

He settles his arse back against the sink, completely unconcerned about his nakedness, but why would he be? We’ve seen each other nude many times.

“Firstly, you’re not well. Where the fuck did that come from?”

“I don’t usually like being babied.” I stop to suck in a breath that he kindly ignores.

“And I completely understand, but I don’t think I’m doing that.” He shrugs. “It just feels natural to look out for you, and I think you’d do the same for me. You’re my hus—” He stops. “You’re my friend, aren’t you?”

I smile at him. “I am and I would do the same.”

“I know.” He gestures at the shower. “Well, get in,” he says briskly.

“There’s the nursing spirit that made Hattie Jacques so famous.”

“You do know she wasn’t actually a matron. That was just a film called Carry on Matron.”

“That’s a shame. She was very brisk. It was comforting.”

“Having met your mother, I’m not surprised by that statement.”

“That woman should just have raised pugs. Who on earth gave her small children?”

He smiles. “I love your mother, though. She’s gloriously scatty.”

“Do you know she couldn’t even remember what vaccinations my sister and I had? She was appallingly vague. One year we had two jabs for measles. We were the most vaccinated children in Britain for that, but for diphtheria we were probably Patient Zero.”

I breathe in, relieved that the awful barbed soreness in my chest is easing in the steam.

His eyes are sharp and concerned, but his manner is beautifully matter-of-fact as he climbs into the shower. “I’m not getting any younger waiting for you,” he observes.

I sidle in next to him and try hard not to register his big body. He shuts the glass door, and the small space becomes even tinier.

“Sorry,” he mutters as he bumps into me.

I turn my back on him, hoping to hide the effect he’s having on my very interested cock. “It’s fine,” I say in a strained voice.

I jump when he reaches for the soap, his arm brushing against me.

“We’ve done this before lots of times,” he says, his voice low and hoarse.

“I know, but I think we were fucking last time.”

“Thanks a bunch for reminding me of that.”

He sounds so aggrieved that I laugh. When it becomes a cough, I tense, nervous about another asthma attack. The thought is frightening. If my inhaler won’t work, then we’re stuck here with no medical attention.

“Hey,” he says, his hand squeezing my shoulder. “It’s fine, darling.” My breathing’s become fast and shaky, and I try to inhale slowly. “That’s it. Deep breaths in. I wish I had a diffuser.”

“Usually carry one of those, do you?”

“I did when we were together.”

“What?” I turn, astonished. My eyes lower automatically. His chest hair is wet, his torso tight and muscled. I immediately pull my gaze to his face. He looks sheepish, as though he never meant to confess that.

He shrugs. “You had a couple of asthma attacks when we were dating.”

“Such a short period before being shackled into wedlock.”

“It was as close to a Catherine Cookson novel as I’ll ever get.”

“So, you actually carried a diffuser? I can’t believe I never noticed.”

“It stayed in my suitcase because it wasn’t needed but it was one of those plug-in ones. I got it on the advice of a chemist.” He looks aggrieved. “I can’t believe I forgot it. It was such a rush coming here.” He stops talking abruptly.