Chapter 617 He’s Not My Husband!

Her slender body bumped against his hard chest. She was about to break free when a groan escaped his lips. The wound on his back was being pulled open. Olive hastily stopped, exclaiming, "It's not my fault! Don't blame me!"

Elvis hugged her. She wore a small halter top. He buried his head in her hair, inhaling her scent. Once the pain subsided, he smiled hoarsely, "What about you harassing me?" What the hell?

"Elvis, I'm saving you! If you get any colder, you'll die!"

He lowered his eyes, rubbing his dry lips against her soft face. "Where did you rub me just now to warm up?"

"Why are men and women still unequal? Isn't it wrong for women to molest men?"

Olive's face flushed, but she retorted, "President Augustine, you're a beast! No matter how cold you are, just rub it and you'll warm up!"

Elvis raised an eyebrow, unperturbed, pulling the blanket over them. Olive wanted to move, but she was lying on top of him—too intimate.

"Don't move!" he said.

Olive was stunned. Elvis hugged her, his deep eyelids heavy with illness and fatigue. Her body felt as soft as jade in his arms. He frowned. "Don't move. Let me hug you."

A warmth spread through Olive's heart. Outside, rain fell heavily; inside, the light flickered faintly. Lying in his lap, listening to the strong beat of his heart, she felt strangely tired and dependent. Forget it. Tonight, she would simply hug him to sleep.

Olive lay on his chest, soft and docile as a kitten. Their breaths mingled. The cold night was so quiet, they could hear each other's heartbeat.

Then, Elvis lowered his eyes and kissed her red lips. This kiss differed from the previous ones. It was soft yet strong, his hot lips brushing and entwining hers, immersing them together.

Olive's slender eyelashes trembled violently. Hesitantly, she responded. She felt like unripe fruit—immature, yet sweet and delicate, tempting a bite.

Elvis wrapped his arms around her slender waist, his rough palms rubbing against her. Their intimacy had already transpired; his slight touch brought her to the edge.

"Don't…" She pressed her small hand against his large palm.

Scarlet filled Elvis's deep eye sockets. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"You're so badly injured, and you're even thinking about this? Be careful you die in bed!" she blushed, glaring at him.

He pursed his thin lips, saying hoarsely, "If I die in bed, I can become an amorous ghost."

Olive's body stiffened. Elvis noted the change, his eyes darkening, sharp as he stared at her. The unspoken thought of her administering his medicine hung delicately in the air.

"Let me go. I'm sleepy. I want to sleep," Olive said.

But Elvis pulled her into his arms, kissing her forehead. His thin lips brushed her skin, and Olive froze. She'd heard that a man kissing a woman's forehead signifies ultimate love and cherishment.

Olive fell silent. Elvis's beautiful eyes moved slightly. "Sleep. Good night."

Her stiff body gradually relaxed, and she closed her eyes.

The next morning, after the night's torrential rain, the sky was clear, the sun brilliant. Olive found a doctor in the tribe. Amazed, he said, "Sir, you were so badly injured, the wound infected, and you had a high fever. To survive the night is a miracle!"

The wound on his back healed. Elvis stood, selecting a clean black shirt with his long, slender hand. Half-naked, his strong, wheat-colored muscles, tight waist, strong abs, and long legs beneath black pants were on display. His body was supremely straight; his simple clothes couldn't diminish his attractiveness and strength. He looked breathtaking.

After dressing, he removed a jade pendant and gave it to the doctor. "Sorry to trouble you last night."

The doctor, though not greedy, recognized the jade at a glance. Seeing Elvis's mature and calm demeanor, he assumed he was a wealthy man, and served him with extra care.

"Sir, you're very polite. Last night's rain blocked the roads; your rescue might be delayed a day or two. You and your wife can stay here. I'll prepare some food."

"Your wife"—Olive. Elvis didn't refute, simply nodding. "Thank you, doctor."

The doctor left. Elvis stepped from the cabin. He and Olive had fallen from the cliff and landed in this small tribe. Ahead lay a river, its water flowing clear. Women washed clothes by the bank.

Elvis paused, his deep phoenix eyes fixed on a slender figure. Olive was there, washing clothes with the others. Her small hands worked surreptitiously; embarrassment stained her cheeks crimson. Her washed underwear was placed in a clean basin.

"Miss Hart, is the man in the room your husband? He's so handsome!" some women exclaimed.

Olive's eyelashes trembled. "He's not my husband!"

"Oh, Miss Hart, you're lying! There's only one bed. Didn't you sleep with him last night?"

Olive's face blazed red. She couldn't withstand their onslaught. After washing the clothes, she stood, emphasizing, "He's not my husband. He's my brother!"

Dizzy, she fled. The women smiled, "Such a pretty, shy girl."

Olive ran a few steps, stopping when she saw the tall, handsome figure. Elvis stood there, watching her. He must have heard their words.

"Hey, bro," the women laughed, "are you this little girl's brother…or husband?"