Beck was studying my x-rays when I came out of the shower, his face serious. He inhaled deeply and said: “Fresh air at last. Thank Christ. Our long national nightmare is over.”
“Oh, you’re hilarious.”
“Says you. Let me check the dressing.”
I sat on his bunk and he knelt in front of me to run his hands over my broken ribs. While his attention was occupied I took the opportunity to stare down at him.
Sure, I hadn’t seen another person in eighteen months and just looking at any living human, even Vogel, would have made me drunk with delight.
But Beck is a straight-up knockout, eyes like the ocean and cheekbones out to here and warm clever capable hands and muscular arms and under his tshirt, all hard muscle.
He smelled amazing; he always did. And he was kneeling in front of me, and I was wearing a wet towel. I wondered if he could see me blushing.
I wondered if the towel covered the fact that I was getting hard.
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