On the Move by Catherine Vale

He was perfect, as beautiful as any man could be.
    After a moment Griffin growled, an impatient sound that brought her eyes to his.
    “I had something else in mind, besides just being looked at.”
    She had no choice but to laugh. “I do, too. But I do need to clean these.” She tipped her heard toward his wounds.
    He nodded and lay still. She sat on the edge of the bed, and focused all her attention on Griffin’s wounds. There were three gashes, running parallel to each other down his side. She gingerly washed them, parting the edges, again picking out bits of leaves. But what seemed to be deep cuts were already showing signs of healing, the wounds no longer bleeding. The blood she was wiping away was old.
    “You’re already starting to heal.” She dipped the cloth in the red-tinged water, wringing it out, wiping away more blood.
    “I don’t think these need any bandages. I’d use up the rest of the cape if I did.” She looked up at him in amazement. “These will be healed by morning, won’t they?”
    He smiled, nodding. “They will. I told you, we heal quickly.”
    “But not the hand.”
    He shook his head. “No, not the hand. It will take a few days. But it will heal.”
    Addison dropped the bloody rag in the water. “That’s a pretty disgusting looking bowl of water.”
    “Set it outside. Someone will take care of it.”
    She picked up the bowl and lifted the pelt. There was a guard standing a few feet away and he glanced at her, gave a solemn nod, then looked away. She set the bowl on the ground outside and stepped back into the hut.
    The air outside was warm, the day still bright. But as she dropped the pelt, the soft darkness fell again inside the hut. Behind her the pallet creaked and she closed her eyes, imagining what Griffin looked like, creating him in detail in her mind, every curve and line, every dip and hollow.
    When she turned he was looking at her, and the image in her mind receded. He was there, in the flesh, waiting for her. And she was ready for him.
    With deliberate steps, she walked across the short distance to his bed. He held out his hand, but she smiled and shook her head. Griffin raised an eyebrow, tucking his hand back behind his head.
    “What did you say you were doing to me? ‘Fuss’? Does that mean disobey as well as care for?” The cocky smile turned up the corner of his mouth, and she decided two could play at this game.
    She shrugged. “It means I fuss…according to Merriam-Webster to pay unnecessary or excessive attention to something…or someone.”
    “And I am to be fussed over? You will pay excessive attention to me? Does that include my needs, or only the healing wounds on my body.”
    “It includes whatever I decide to fuss over. And, if you behave, that might include other parts of your body, besides the broken parts.”
    He looked at her for a long moment, then his eyes slid down over her body. “Is it also possible for me to fuss over you?”
    “You may, when you are healed. But for now…” She took another step forward. “I do the fussing, and you lie still.”
    “Really? You wish me to lie still? I’m not sure that’s going to be very interesting for either of us.”
    She burst into laughter. “Not literally. Just…you let me take care of things.”
    His expression clouded and he shook his head. “I am not usually on the side that does nothing. I am the one who takes care of things.”
    Addison was startled by the sudden wave of exhaustion that crossed Griffin’s face. It had been a long day, not only for her, but for him as well. Longer, considering yesterday he’d challenged Xavier, been taken away, escaped, hidden in the jungle, and then fought for her, along with fighting Xavier. Any other man would be a wreck.
    “I think it’s time, at least inside this hut, when you give up being the only one to take care of things.”
    He reached for her again, his hand resting on her hip, fingers caressing, sliding over the material of her dress.