Reaching up with his left hand, he palmed one and got a slap across the offending limb.

“Stop that right now, Mitchell Shaw.”

He grinned. “Your nipples are hard.”

Sissy sat back, placing a small corkboard on the floor, and that’s when Mitch realized she was straddling his waist, wearing nothing more than a tiny pair of shorts and a cutoff AC/DC band shirt. Exactly what was she doing?

“What is wrong with you?” she demanded.

“I’ve had a near-death experience, Sissy…and I’m really horny. Uh…think we can—”

“No. We can’t. And you couldn’t even feed yourself not too long ago.”

“It was all that chicken soup. It cured me.”

“Yeah. Right. And stop touching!” She slapped his hand away again.

“Oh, come on, Sissy. I almost died. Can’t you help me out?”

“You did not. And I’m not having sex with you ’cause you almost died.”

“Fine. Hand job?” he asked hopefully.

“No.”

“Blow job?” Christ, he was horny. Horny, hungry, and…safe. It had been so long since he felt that way, he almost didn’t recognize it. But that’s what being here with Sissy made him feel. Safe.

“Mitchell!”

“At least let me bury my face between your breasts. Just for like five seconds.”

“Don’t make me hurt you.”

“If I do, will I get to call you mistress?”

She slid off his lap and ended up staring at the tent she’d left behind. “What is wrong with you?”

He grinned, happy to see that all of his important parts were still working. “Apparently nothing.”

Smirking, Sissy suddenly grabbed the sheet and lifted it, taking a look.

“Hey!”

“My, my, my. Look what you’ve been hiding, Mr. Shaw.”

He snatched the sheet back. It was one thing to be the predatory male in this scenario, but Sissy had turned it on him like she did with everyone else. “Hands to yourself, Smith. I won’t let you turn me into your sexual plaything.”

Sissy laughed. “Not yet you won’t.”

She might have a point.

“I’m hungry,” he announced.

“I’ve got some more soup—”

“Any more soup, and I’ll start roaring. You know you hate that.”

“Are you implying you want some meat?”

“No. I’m telling you I want some meat. Feed me.”

“I’ll bring something up.”

“Actually…” Mitch sat up a bit. “I’d rather get up.”

“You sure?”

He nodded.

“Okay.” Sissy walked across the room and grabbed the duffelbag he’d brought with him to the hotel. She must have brought it with them when they left. “Your sweatpants okay?”

“Perfect.”

She walked to the bed and pulled out sweatpants and a T-shirt. “Here.”

“Thanks.”

He waited for her to leave, but she just stood there.

“Yes?”

“Don’t you need help getting dressed?”

“No.” He made shooing motions with his left hand. He knew it was ridiculous, but he didn’t want Sissy to see him as weak and needy.

“Can you move your right arm yet?”

“I’ll make do. Go away.”

“Fine. Suffer.” She moved toward the door. “Let me know when you’re ready to come downstairs. I’ll help you.”

“I can manage.”

“Fine,” she said again. “But if you fall, I’m leaving you there until you learn a lesson.”

“Very nice.”

“I’ll get food started. It’ll take a bit, so don’t rush.”

He didn’t think he could even if he wanted to.

By the time Mitch made it downstairs, Sissy was pulling the mac and cheese she’d mixed the night before out of the oven. She’d made quite a few meals over the last three days in between checking on Mitch. She couldn’t sleep well anyway, and she was afraid to sleep for long periods of time, should something happen. So Sissy did what she always did when she was stressing out—she cooked. She found it soothing, and she was pretty good at it. In the time it took Mitch to really wake up, she’d completely filled both freezers with potential dinners. Whatever remained when she and Mitch left would feed her parents for a couple of months.

His long time getting ready gave her time to bake up the food and get her uncontrollable nipples in order. What exactly were they thinking anyway? Getting all hard and needy just because Mitch Shaw, of all people, had his face between her tits? She blamed them. Not herself. Damn nipples.

“That smells good.”

Sissy jumped a bit before turning around and helping Mitch into one of the table chairs. She felt his forehead as she’d been doing over and over again for three damn days.

“Am I okay, Mom?”

“Don’t be a smart-ass.”

“Yup. You even sound like my mother.” Mitch let out a sigh. “I’m worried about her. My mother.”

“She’s fine. And she knows you’re fine.”

“She does?”

“Yeah. I called my Aunt Janette, and she called my other aunt, one of Daddy’s sisters—he has six—in Alabama; she called my uncle—one of my momma’s brothers—in North Carolina who called—”