Chapter 25

There I lie him down on my bunk, pull the

sheets up to his chin, smooth his hair back from his face and press

my lips to his forehead like my mother used to do to me when I was

a little boy and sick with a fever. His skin is hot, flushed and

pink and feverish, too damn warm. “Hot,” he sighs, tugging at the

sheets. “Get these off me.”

I take off the sheets and he starts to unzip

his jumpsuit. “Dylan—”

“It’s hot,” he complains. “Take it

off, Neal, please. Take it—” The zipper catches in the fabric and

he tugs at it, hard yanks that threaten to tear the material before

I manage to catch his hands and hold him still. “Take it off,” he

sighs. His breath is like a furnace against my cheek. “Please,

baby, I’m dying here.”

“You’re not dying,” I tell him, but he

iswarm so I unzip his jumpsuit and help him out of it. Then

he tears at his boxers, trying to take those off, as well. “Dylan,”

I warn.

“Off,” he says. “Baby—”

So I ease the boxers down and he kicks them