I was going to undress The Defender.
Me. Gracie.
I gulped.
It was going to be a sacrifice in the name of humanity.
And it was the closest I’d been to a man in a really long time.
He wasn’t just a man though, was he? He was all muscle and nice skin and a beautiful face that the world had no idea what it was missing out on, and… everything. And I was about to help him take off his suit. That world-renowned, charcoal suit and blue cape, or what was left of it.
Me.
“By my neck,” he grumbled, raising a hand and pulling at the loop of material that barely managed to keep the cape on him. It ripped easily, way too easily, but he made a little sound like even that hurt.
Right, Mr. I Am Stronger Than Every Human On This Planet.
And really, maybe it was the pain—I hoped it was—but he was seeming like he really might be—I whispered it in my head just in case he could hear me—kind of a dickhead.
Thinking it felt like blasphemy, but also like the truth.
I nodded, side-eyeing him for clues he might have known what I’d just called him, as I reached for his face. He was back to staring-slash-glaring, so I ignored him. It didn’t take long at all to pull the rest of the thick, heavy material off him. He’d done all the hard work ripping it, and I dropped it beside him on the bed. Most of the sleeves of the suit had gotten lost or burned at some point, so all I had to do was peel what was left down toward his middle section.
I kept my eyes glued to the dark material, making sure to pretend like stripping him wasn’t blowing my mind. Like it was every day I got an up-close and personal view of a body I was trying my absolute hardest to pretend was nothing special when I 100 percent would have gotten a microscope and checked him out if I could’ve gotten away with it. Like I wouldn’t have had a poster of him under a waterfall if my grandma would have let me get away with it as a teenager. Of course, this was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to see one of the most incredible bodies in the universe, and I couldn’t even properly enjoy it.
What a fucking shame.
When I had the tatters down to his waist, I looked up at him.
He was glowering, but he still asked, “Do you… have pants?”
I nodded.
Dark eyelashes swept over those incredible eyes. “Leave ’em. Turn around.”
“You don’t need help taking the rest of your suit off?” I croaked, hoping I didn’t sound hysterical. Not because I wanted to help him take off his… bottoms but because he looked shaky sitting there.
But, obviously, that wasn’t what he assumed, because somehow his expression got that much more irritated, which was a surprise because I hadn’t thought that was fucking possible. “No,” he snapped.
I’d go fuck myself then.
I really hoped it was pain making him this bitchy.
I peeked at his face to see if he’d read my mind, but he wasn’t shooting daggers at me.
Whew.
Getting up, I went to my dresser and pulled out one of the pairs of men’s sweatpants I wore sometimes when it was cold. They might be loose on him because his hips were narrower, but they’d fit. I also grabbed one of my biggest T-shirts, hesitating for a second when I noticed the design, but then I bit my lip and set the clothes beside him on the bed.
“Help me get up.”
Whatever he wanted.
Back under his heavy arm, I helped him and his fucking concrete bones to stand up, and as soon as he was on his feet, he put his hand on the nightstand and shot me a dirty side-look that I definitely didn’t deserve. What was up his ass? Did I do something to him in a dream? “Turn around,” he ordered in his crackly voice. “Close your eyes.”
That’s what I did, even though I wondered if he thought I was going to peek through my fingers.
I stood there, facing the wall, listening to soft groans that said he was definitely hurting. He hit something, then banged into something else. The sudden scent of something burning hit my nose at the same time a bright light flashed on the other side of my lids.
“Everything okay?” I asked, trying to imagine what the hell he was doing.
He gave me what I was starting to think was his typical answer as the burning smell peaked: The Defender grunted. Then he made the same noise as it sounded like he sat back down from the way the mattress creaked.
“Done,” that exhausted voice huffed.
I pinched my lips together as I finally turned. He was on the edge of the bed. He’d managed to pull the gray sweatpants on, but the shirt I’d left for him had fallen to the floor beside his feet and the blanket.
Oh.
He was shirtless.
The Defender was basically half-naked.
And if I could’ve counted it discreetly, I was pretty sure there were eight little squares of muscle making up his abs.
But I couldn’t actually confirm it.
I couldn’t look at anything but his face, and I knew it. He would notice. And I had self-control. I really did. There was a box of cookies that I managed to only eat two of at a time.
I wasn’t weak.
I had discipline.
I could do this. I could keep my eyes to myself. Above his nipples. I could ignore his maybe-eight-pack and pretend I didn’t see all that endless, dark-golden skin.
Keep it together. Keep it fucking together, Gracie. You can do it.
Compared to everything else I’d been through, that should be easy-peasy.
I’d almost convinced myself of it when I opened my mouth and croaked, “Do you need me to help you with the shirt?”
Yeah, I wasn’t fooling fucking anybody.
The Defender’s expression didn’t change at all, and I didn’t think I was imagining the ice in his voice when he answered. “Yes.”
Oh boy.
Stepping close, I picked up the shirt and shook it out, keeping my eyes glued to the floor because I couldn’t look at his chest, and I sure couldn’t focus on the design either. Then, in a move I’d practiced so many times with my grandma, I tugged the biggest opening over his head, and then I picked up one wrist and paused.
His hands were red. Really, really red, like they’d been sunburnt to hell, even worse than his cheeks had been. Those were now a dark pink as well. His hands definitely hadn’t been like that earlier.
Trying not to make a face or ask a fucking question, I lifted it carefully and put it through the armhole, then did the same for the other. He helped, but not much, and that said a hell of a lot.
There was something seriously wrong if he was struggling to lift his arms to get dressed and feed himself.
But that wasn’t supposed to be any of my business. None of this was. Not his strength and not his suddenly red hands.
Much less the circumstances that had led up to him being here.
On my bed, about to give me a million-dollar view of his body.
I swallowed.
Dropping into a crouch, I tugged his shirt from where it was bunched up around muscular pecs—getting a good view of two brown nipples—down the most impressive stomach in the history of the world, and finally let it sit where the band of the sweatpants rested.
That memory was going to be burned into my brain for the rest of my life. The tight, hard muscles of his abs, on his obliques, along his ribs… all that smooth, tan skin…
I snapped out of it.
Where the hell had his suit gone?