I can tell he’s shocked that I’m this out of breath and weary just from sitting upright. Reality sucks. I liked it better in the cocoon of heat and sexuality, last night. That was way better than feeling like this.
I hold out my hands. “Just help me stand up.” I take his hands, and he gently helps me to my feet. I let him pull, just bracing my feet on the floor until I’m upright. “Okay, now just walk with me like I’m your old grandma who might fall over any second.”
He stands beside me and I grip his bicep with both hands. “Funny thing is, my great-grandma actually did live with us when I was younger. And I actually did help her around like this. So, you know, I’ve got practice.”
We shuffle slowly to the bathroom, and once I reach the toilet, I let go. “Okay, I’ve got it from here.”
He hesitates. “You’re sure? There’s…there’s nothing I won’t do to help, Jo. Nothing.”
I smirk, a wrinkle of my nose and a scrunch of my eyebrows. “I can manage this part. I would like to leave a little sexiness and mystery in this relationship, for a while at least. For a full seventy-two hours, at least.”
He nods. “Okay. Just yell if you need me.”
Once I’m done, I work myself to my feet on my own—it’s a long, laborious process, and hurts like anything, but I manage it. I even wash my hands. At some point last night or this morning, he got out his toiletries, and I spy a little bottle of mouth wash. I pour some into my mouth and rinse; at least my breath is minty fresh, now. Open the door.
“And back we go,” I say, reaching for him. He sniffs as I lean against him. “I used your mouth wash. Hope that’s all right.”
“Nope,” he quips. “That’s far too much of a liberty. My royal mouthwash is sacred, and not for the use of mere mortal peasants such as yourself.”
“Ah, forgive me, your majesty. It won’t happen again.”
It’s good to laugh.
He helps me back to the bed, and I crawl in, but instead of lying down, I prop up against the headboard.
“You want to find something on TV?” I suggest.
He ends up paying almost thirty dollars for us to watch one of the newer Mission Impossible movies, which seems absurd, but he insists he doesn’t care.
My favorite part of the movie is when I get tired and he helps me to lie down on his lap, and he plays with my head, fingers tracing in my hair and around my ear.
I can’t help but be aware of how close I am to a part of him which I’m fiercely curious to see and touch. If only I didn’t feel like a dumpster fire.
The movie ends, eventually.
I’m not quite dozing, and the pain has subsided to a distant but constant all-over ache. Experience tells me I’ll need to rest again tomorrow, but I should be back to something close to normal the next day.
Basically, I’m counting the hours until I’m feeling well enough to…well…what do I call what we did? Making out? Fooling around? It wasn’t sex, exactly. Sexual, but not sex. Whatever you want to call it, I want more.
A lot more.
As much more as I can get, before the bad days start outnumbering the good ones.
Ohhh boy, there’s a thought that puts some pressure to not take this whole thing with Wes too slowly. Ha. I met him two, now almost three days ago, and he’s already given me my first orgasm. I think that’s quick by any measure.
But then, who’s measuring? Not me. It feels right. I feel safe with him. I know he cares about me, genuinely. Is this crazy? Maybe. But I’m going with it. All the way, as far as it goes.
Cozy on his lap, warm, his hands on my shoulder and hip, the is pain finally distant enough to let me really fall asleep.
Get Back to the Good
Wes
She’s asleep, finally.
I wriggle as gradually and carefully as I can out from underneath her, dig cash out of my wallet, and write a note for the delivery person, instructing him or her to call my phone when they’re here, instead of knocking, and I leave the note on the floor outside the door.
A few minutes later, my phone buzzes, and instead of answering it, I go to the door with a hundred-dollar bill. The delivery person is a teenage girl, just barely old enough to have a license, probably. She recognizes me immediately, eyes flying open wide, jaw dropping open.
“I…you—it’s you. Hi, um, you.” She hands me the whole heat bag. “Pizza?”
I laugh. “Take a deep breath. It’s all good.” I push the heat bag back to her. “I don’t think your boss would be very happy if you gave away the heat bag.”
She blinks. “Oh. Um. Right.” She doesn’t move to take the pizza out of the bag, though. “I can’t believe it’s you. What—what in the world are you doing here?”
“Road trip.” I open the flap and remove the pizza, hold up a finger. “Hold on.”
I set the pizza on the table inside and go back out to the hallway, where the girl is still standing in stunned immobility.
“Got your phone?” I ask.
She holds it up. “It’s a Samsung.”
I laugh. “Nice.” I turn and stand beside her, put my arm around her shoulders. “You want a selfie?”
She nods. “Selfie.” She blinks as if coming awake, finally. “Wait, for real?”
I grin. “Yup. For real.”
She opens her camera and snaps half a dozen in quick succession. Then, she digs a pen out of her back pocket. She holds it out to me. “Can I have your autograph, too?”
I hesitate. “What should I sign?”
She looks baffled for a moment. “Um.” Then, glancing down, she realizes she’s wearing a company logo-emblazoned polo with all of three buttons open, and tugs the top down, exposing the upper portion of her breasts. “These?”
The receipt is inside the heat bag, I notice, which is on the hallway floor, opening facing up. I reach in and grab the receipt, flatten it against the wall, and glance at her. “How about this instead? What’s your name?”
“Katie?” It comes out like a question.
I sign it with her name and a smiley face:
To Katie, this autograph won’t vanish next time you wash. —Westley Britton
I hand it to her, and she stares at it with wonder. “There you go.”
She then stares at me. “You’re so beautiful.”
I grin. “Thanks. You are too, Katie.”
“You remembered my name.”
I snort. “I mean, you just told me ten seconds ago.”
“Oh, right.” A shake of her head. “Sorry, I’m not usually this stupid. You’re just really hot and I can’t believe I’m meeting you.”
I smirk. “Hey, I once had someone ask me for an autograph, and then she couldn’t remember her own name. It happens.”
She blushes. “I had to think about it. Like, ‘what’s my name again. Oh yeah, Katie.’”
“Well, Katie. It was great to meet you, and thank you for bringing me pizza.” I hand her the hundred. “Keep the change.”
She boggles at me. “It was less than twenty dollars, Mister Westley, sir.”