She lifted her hands.
Troy’s heart stopped. Such a simple gesture, but it exhibited something Sin rarely, if ever, gave. Trust.
He sucked in a deep breath, put his hands under her arms and started to lift her. She was deadweight. “It’s okay if you want to push up with your legs a little.”
“I’m trying.” She made a sound of frustration and splashed. She slipped, he held tight, she reached desperately for his shoulders. Then she was out of the tub, and her naked slippery body was pressed tortuously against his.
Troy stopped. He couldn’t ignore the sensation of her nipples scoring his chest. His shirt and pants were instantly moistened by her. Troy couldn’t help thinking how hot and wet she’d be, and how easy it would be to touch her, how easy it would be to slip inside her and lose himself.
He ground his teeth together.
“Sorry,” she murmured. “Guess I’m a little slippery.”
“I’ll say,” he muttered. “Let’s get this towel around you.” He tried to shift so that he could wrap it around her, as much for his sanity as for her comfort. He shifted again, and she wiggled against him, her breasts abrading his wet shirt, her lower body against his crotch.
Troy swore. “Forget it,” he said, and swung her into his arms. The position put her breasts about six inches from his mouth, but he wasn’t going to think about that, he told himself. Not in the seconds it would take to carry Sin to her bedroom.
“Sorry,” she said again as he stomped toward her bed.
“It’s okay,” he lied. “I’m glad I can help.” Certain his hands were going to permanently attach themselves to her skin, he tumbled her on the bed more quickly than he’d planned and put the towel over her.
He turned away and willed his body not to shudder in arousal. “Which drawer?” he asked in a voice curt to his own ears.
“Drawer?” she echoed.
“Which drawer is your nightgown in?”
A long silence followed. “I, uh, don’t really have to have a nightgown. I don’t always wear—”
Troy shook his head. “Wear one tonight.” When she didn’t answer, he looked over his shoulder. “I’m staying.”
She looked dismayed. “That’s not necessary. I’ll be—”
“I’m staying. Which drawer?”
Senada sighed. “Lord, you’re bossy. Third one on the left.”
Troy immediately pulled out the drawer and sank his hands into a plethora of silk and satin. Why didn’t somebody just shoot him? What did you expert, bonehead? he asked himself. Cotton and flannel?
He grabbed a pink silky something with straps and slung it in her direction. “Here. Want something to drink?”
“Some water would be nice.”
Troy walked to the kitchen, poured Sin a glass of water and just stood there and watched the water pour from the faucet.
He was hot, bothered and hard with no sign of release or relief in the long night ahead.
Cool water. Cool, mind-clearing, soothing water.
Troy stuck his head under the faucet.
Chapter Eight
Troy walked back into her room. “Sin,” he began, then stopped when he saw that she was asleep.
A dry chuckle rumbled from his throat. The woman clearly didn’t like to be told what to do. She was beneath the covers, her face as innocent as an angel’s, as trusting as a child’s. Her body, however, would tempt Saint Peter. And Troy was certain her body was presently nude, because the rose-colored scrap of silk lay on top of the covers.
He sighed and took a sip of the water, then placed it on the bedside stand. He looked at Sin and felt a tugging sensation. Asleep, with her guard down and her sharp weaponry of wit put away, she was more accessible. Her defenses weren’t fifteen feet high. He wondered how long the walls stayed down when she woke up. He wondered what it would be like to be with Sin when all her walls were down. He wondered what it would take for her to let a man near her without her defenses firmly in place.
He wondered how he was going to walk away now that he knew some of her secrets.
Shaking his head, he scooped up her rose-colored lingerie and carried it with him as he strolled toward her bedroom window. She was technically fine, he told himself. Most men would consider their duty done. He should be able to go.
No way in hell, he thought. Especially after he’d watched her deal with both her father and the insulin reaction. Her skin had turned so pale, and she’d been so close to passing out, she’d nearly scared the spit out of him.
Rustling the silky nightgown between his fingers, he decided he would leave as soon as she woke in the morning. Her perfume taunted his nostrils, and he looked at the feminine garment in his hand. He wondered when she’d last worn it. He wondered who had taken it off.