“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” I snap, wanting to touch him if only to provide comfort but fearing it will hurt him worse, fearing I won’t stop at one touch.

Macon’s brows knit as he glares. “My mind was on other things.”

I refrain from blushing. Which is a feat, considering my mind can’t seem to get away from those “other things.”

Macon makes a noise of stifled pain. “It wasn’t an issue until I reached over to turn on the taps, and everything seized up.”

Two years ago, I decided to try one of those boot camp, “We’ll make you feel the pain until you cry” workouts. I went home and moved the wrong way while pulling out my house keys, my back clenched, and I ended up on my floor for an hour until my mother arrived to help me. The agony was real.

“Okay,” I say softly. “Have you taken anything for the pain?”

“I’m already on meds for my leg,” he grits out, his expression slightly sullen as if he doesn’t want to admit it. “I’ve taken all I can.”

“You should be lying down. On the floor. Really, it’ll help.”

His lip quirks with tight discomfort. “I need to soak in the tub first.”

Only then do I realize he’s still sandy, tiny bits of ocean detritus sticking to his temple and on his neck.

“Jesus, why didn’t you clean off before?”

“Because I couldn’t fucking move?” A small sound leaves him. “North usually helps with this, but he’s out.”

“Is it wrong that I find that kind of hot?”

Macon cuts me a look as though he can’t decide whether to laugh or roll his eyes. “Whatever gets you going, Tot.” His humor wanes. “I’ve been standing here for too long, trying to shake it off and get my ass in the tub, but it isn’t working. Would you please, for the love of all that is holy, turn the taps on for me?”

Right, he needs my help. And I’ve been fantasizing about hot male shower action. “Sure.”

Macon’s bathroom is . . . wow. As big as my bedroom back home, it has a copper gentleman’s soaking tub large enough for two tucked into a windowed alcove to take in the view. The fireplace in the bedroom is double sided, open to the bathroom. The flicker of firelight gives the room a golden glow.

“What?” Macon asks when I stand there gaping.

“All that’s missing is a bottle of champagne and some lounge music to make this a perfect seduction cliché.”

He cuts me a sidelong look. “I can barely move, but I’ll make note of that for later.”

Grumbling, I walk over and turn on the taps that are in the middle so that a person can comfortably lean their head on either side of the tub. “How hot do you want it?” I ask over my shoulder as Macon hobbles in, wincing with each step.

“Just this side of cooking me.” He stops by my side. His dark eyes suddenly appear a little boyish. “Can you, ah, put bubbles in?”

I grin wide. “You want a bubble bath?”

“Hey. The bubbles help keep in the heat, and they smell nice.”

The man is a good ten inches taller than me, with shoulders twice as wide. The world knows him as a barbarian warlord king-killer on their favorite show. But he is adorable just now.

“You don’t have to convince me,” I say lightly. “I love a good bubble bath.”

“Do you now?” he murmurs under his breath but then gives me an innocent look when I glance back.

He wasn’t kidding about his love of bubbles. Multiple bath gels and a nice wide loofah wait on a rack by the tub. I eye it, and he shifts his weight as if being caught out. Not hiding my smile, I pour some gel into the water rushing from the faucet. The scents of bergamot and warm vanilla fill the humid air. It’s a subtle fragrance but delicious, like sticking your nose into the warm crook of a well-groomed man’s neck.

I shake my head at my wandering mind. Time for me to go. Only Macon’s lips are still pinched, and he’s wearing a sandy, damp shirt that clings to his chest and shoulders. That shirt isn’t going to come off easily.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

“Can you lift your arms?” I ask, my voice a little thick.

“Do I have to?” His expression is one of dread.

“Come on; man up, and let’s do this.”

He smirks, but that quickly fades as he tries to lift his arm. “Fuck.”

Ordinarily, I might have been flustered pulling off Macon Saint’s shirt. But it’s such a slow, awful process, with Macon gritting his teeth, breaking out in a cold sweat of pain, and me wincing in sympathy, that we both sigh in relief when it’s finally off.

His broad chest heaves as he leans a hip against the wall. “Fuck the bath; just put me out of my misery, Tot.”