She was definitely on the verge of being completely out of it, or she’d never have said something like that. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing, because he figured if he did it would hurt her feelings. He needed her cooperation, not a battle. “That’s okay. I have a little dick.” And this time he lied without compunction.
He watched her brow knit in a frown as she processed that, laboriously forcing her tired and hypothermic brain to work through whatever barriers of modesty and insecurity she had.
Finally she gave a tiny nod, and allowed him to undress her.
He kept his mind out of the gutter, which was tough because that was never a long trip for him, but this time he resolutely refused to let his thoughts go there. She had put her trust in him, and by God he’d honor that. He’d keep his mind on the chore at hand, and the reason for it, and save the lusting for later.
Once she’d given her permission, she seemed to sink back into deep lethargy, not showing any reaction at all as he peeled off her wet clothes, not even when he reached around to unsnap her bra, which wasn’t much of a bra as far as he could tell, really just an extra layer of cloth. The bra wasn’t as soaked as the rest of her clothes, but mud and water had seeped beneath her slicker and shirt and it was damp in places. He tossed it onto the sodden heap with the rest of her clothes.
Dare couldn’t say he’d never imagined Angie naked. He had. Several times. Maybe a hundred or so. But he’d never imagined that the first time he saw her naked would be in these circumstances, or that he’d try really hard to keep his gaze from lingering on her small round breasts and tight nipples. She was wrong; she had boobs, pretty ones that were small and high, and he guessed she wore a bra more because she thought she was supposed to than because she really needed one. He loved tight nipples, but not when they were tight from cold instead of what he was doing to them. He didn’t like that her skin looked almost bloodless, that she could barely sit up, and knowing how helpless she was, how much in danger she was, gave him the strength to keep his mind on what needed to be done and not on what he’d love to be doing.
He checked her for wounds on her upper body, but beyond a variety of scrapes and bruises there wasn’t anything to concern him, no cuts, no punctures. He wiped her down quickly with a wet wipe, starting with her face and moving downward, followed that with a rubdown with the one towel he’d brought along, then slipped her arms into the sleeves of the flannel shirt and buttoned it up.
Once that was done, he eased her down on the mattress and began working her boots off. Cowardly, he removed the left one first, figuring he needed to work up to the tough stuff. He could cut the boot off if he had to, but if her ankle was just sprained she’d need that boot. When he moved to the right foot, he completely unlaced the boot so he could make it as loose as possible, then very gently began easing it off. Angie immediately tensed and uttered a choked cry. “Sorry,” he murmured, working his fingers inside the opening and bracing her ankle as best he could, but there was no way that boot was coming off without her foot and ankle flexing at least a little. She clenched her fists and jaw, her eyes closed tight, and endured.
Finally the boot and sock were off, and he could see the ankle. It was swollen and bluish, but there was no bone poking through the skin, no obvious unnatural position. He didn’t have X-ray vision, so maybe it was sprained or maybe there was a simple fracture. At any rate, the best he could do was cool it, wrap it, and keep her off it for now.
First things first, though. The rest of her clothes had to come off. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her soaked sweatpants and began working them down, dragging her underwear along, too. Again, she flinched when he had to get her foot free, but she didn’t make a sound. Thank God his flannel shirt was so big on her it covered her down to the middle of her thighs, because he could carry his good intentions only so far. As it was, the glimpse he got of dark pubic hair was enough to make his heartbeat jump into second gear. God almighty. How much could he take?
As much as was necessary, that was how much.
Almost growling as he pulled a fresh wet wipe from the pack, he set about cleaning away any mud he saw, then briskly dried her with the towel and got his thermal long johns on her without causing her too much discomfort. She made a low, inarticulate sound of relief at finally having dry clothes on; he gave another involuntary growl, whether of regret or relief that she was covered, he couldn’t have said. Finally he put one of his clean socks on her left foot, leaving the other one bare so he could tend to her ankle.
Okay, he was making progress. Next he towel-dried her hair, which had been partially protected by the hood of the slicker but, like everything else, had gotten soaked anyway. Then he moved on to her hands.
Her hands were a mess, swollen and bruised, her palms almost shredded with cuts. As gently as possible, not wanting to hurt her, he began cleaning them. There was a real danger of infection, because she’d been crawling through mud with open wounds on her hands. After the mud was cleaned away, he tore open an antiseptic pad from the first-aid kit and once again gently but thoroughly wiped the wounds, looking for bits of trash in the cuts. She didn’t say a word, and flinched only once, when he raked a splinter from a cut on the pad of her thumb. Then he smeared antibiotic ointment over all the cuts, wrapped her palms with gauze, and taped the bandages in place.
The ankle was next. He sat on the mattress next to her and lifted her right leg onto his lap, with her foot positioned so he had unencumbered access to it. There wasn’t much he could do: tear open an alcohol wipe and gently lay it across the swollen joint to cool it, then wrap an Ace bandage firmly around her foot and ankle.