By the time I finish my university speech, my mouth is dry and my heels are sore. The applause echoes from the students and I wave at them, smiling, but I hardly feel present enough to enjoy it. My mind's still at the hospital, with Desmond.
I couldn't feel the fever heat on him this morning, but he still looked sick, especially around the eyes. Then came his bruised hand. It's a wonder he didn't hiss when he was lavishing me last night, but when I checked on it before leaving the hospital, the bandage around it had bled—a little. Still, it was all I needed to see before I asked the nurse not to discharge him yet. Not until we're sure he's safe.
Last night was an in-the-moment thing, an impulse. I should have been the one to hold back given he had a fever, but I just couldn't when he suddenly groped my ass and pulled me to him.
"Do you have a fever, ma'am? Your face is red," my introverted driver asks, bending his head to have a clear view of my face.
