She’d settled in after an especially restless doze, finding that just-right spot where she could breathe through her nose and not cough. She floated, dreaming she was in this bed and flat on her stomach. The covers were pulled down to her butt, and big, rough hands were under her tank top, gliding over her skin, rubbing something greasy into her upper back.
Oh God, yessssss! A sex dream! But what’s with the greasy shit on my back?
The “shit on her back” wasn’t just greasy, it was mentholated. She raised her head. The hands stopped. She glanced over her shoulder. Not a dream. “What are you doing?”
Quinn peered at her. “You don’t remember me asking just now if you wanted me to spread this on you?”
“No. What is it?”
He held up a jar that appeared ridiculously small in his meaty hand. “Tiger Balm. Some Chinese stuff Mom uses everywhere, for everything. She thought it would be good for your congestion. I swear to God, I asked and you said, ‘Go forward,’ or ‘Go for it,’ and rolled on your stomach and pulled the covers off. That wasn’t me.”
I did? Damn, I’m definitely out of it. I’d have remembered giving an okay for a back rub, if for no other reason than I wouldn’t have wanted to miss it. “Did you do my front too?” Her voice came out in a squawk.
He looked genuinely affronted—it was kind of a cute look on him. “God, no. I thought I’d do your back and leave the rest to you.”
“Are you done?”
“Not quite. There’s a little more to—”
“Thank God!” She flopped back on her stomach with a noisy sigh. “Carry on, Sparky.”
A rumbly laugh reverberated in his chest. “Yes, ma’am.” His fingers worked over her back, her shoulders, her spine, kneading and digging as he teased up her top inch by inch. She adjusted so he could push it higher, clearing her shoulder caps. Then she moaned; she couldn’t help herself. What he was doing felt soooo damn good. Maybe she should stay sick.
The more she moaned, the deeper he massaged, until her upper back was reduced to warm jelly.
“Lower back,” she croaked when he stopped.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. Just keep it above the panty line.”
“I’ll do my best,” he chuckled. “There’s not much room to maneuver.” He splayed his warm hand over the small of her back. “You don’t have a lot of real estate. My hand reaches almost all the way across your back here.” His voice was gravelly and low. Sexy as hell. He hadn’t bothered to pull her top back down, nor did she urge him to. Air moving over her mentholated skin sent tingles from the follicles on her head to the tips of her toes. Or was it his touch causing that sensation?
He leaned down and whispered beside her ear. “That’s a very fine pair of dimples you’ve got there, toots. Nicest I’ve ever seen.” His warm breath caressed her skin, turning it all goose-bumpy. She might have let out an errant moan that had nothing to do with his fingers kneading her back. This was followed moments later by a shameful whimper when his fingertips brushed just below the top of her panties. She longed for them to slide down farther. For him to drag her panties down, slowly, slowly. Down to her ankles. Off her ankles. For him to explore and massage her ass, her legs, and slide a calloused hand between her thighs and creep higher, higher, doing wickedly wonderful things with his strong, thick fingers.
But he behaved—damn him!—and she bit back her frustration.
Yeah, she had to be sick if these lustful thoughts were chugging around in her head. Obviously, she’d moved from the delusional to the hallucinating phase of the virus’s progression.
With an extended sigh, she let her body melt into the mattress, and she floated away with the incredible, sensual sensation of Quinn’s powerful hands all over her bare back.
Sarah’s soft snuffling noises signaled she was asleep, and Quinn reluctantly withdrew his hands from her smooth skin and straightened. Other parts of him were pretty damn straight too, and looking at her naked back and her perfect ass jiggling beneath her thin panties every time she moved only added to the ache. Her arms were crossed over her head, and white half-crescents of soft flesh where her bare breasts were pressed into the mattress taunted him, urging his fingers to touch and stroke and caress.
She’s sick. She’s sick. She’s sick.
Archer was staring at him staring at Sarah. Quinn stood, and the dog’s gaze traveled to the wood on full display in his gym shorts. Yeah, I’m the sick one, Arch. He glanced back at Sarah’s form longingly. And now I have a new image for the spank bank.
He kept his eyes fastened on her exposed back. Lack of blood in his brain meant only a skeleton crew was at work in the processing department, which left him bewildered about what to do with her top. Leave it the way it was? She’d get chilled. Pull it down? That might involve reaching underneath her body and fondling—er, fumbling—until he secured it in place. He felt his enthusiasm rising at the prospect of option two; unfortunately, the visual turned his wood into granite. Maybe he should do nothing—stand and stare until she rolled over—
Covers!
He pulled the covers over her instead and scrambled from her room. The problem in his pants wasn’t going away, and he was anxious to hit the shower and take care of it—if he could make it that far.
A battle raged in his head. Every admonition his saner self had thrown at him, every logical argument to not picture his buddy’s sister when he rubbed one out, flew out the window because damn it! She was the only woman currently on deposit in
