Yet here we were.
Kingston had gone to the office to handle a few things. So when Atlas came back with a bright purple polish, we were alone while he took off my old, cracking stuff and put on a pretty good new coat.
"Smells weird in here," Kingston declared when he came back in half an hour later, sniffing the air.
"I was just helping beautify your girl," Atlas informed him, waving the bottle.
"She doesn't need your help to be beautiful," Kingston declared. It was both sweet and a little pointed at the same time.
But Atlas let it slide right off, as he always did, moving to stand.
"I have to get going. Take care of those fat toes, babe. I will see you at Sunday dinner."
"Your toes aren't fat," Kingston offered immediately, like he needed to boost up my confidence, like he thought Atlas had knocked it down.
"Just the first three," I told him, shrugging. "All five were this morning."
"Which I didn't know because you wouldn't let me see them," he told me, crushing the idea that I had been pulling off the cold feet lie pretty well considering my terrible track record of lying convincingly. "You don't need to be insecure about that shit," he added, coming to sit off the edge of the bed near my hip, looking down at me.
He wasn't wrong. And I had to quickly get over it because I was relying on him completely. To help me do things. Like the shower he had mentioned before heading out when Atlas arrived.
"You ready?" he asked, somehow reading my mind.
"No," I admitted.
"It won't be so bad. We have the cast protector. Which I was told by the nurse to tape down to be extra sure. But that's not a big deal."
"I don't know how I am going to stand up that whole time," I admitted, wondering if we should have sent Nixon out to pick up a shower chair.
I didn't understand the light in his eyes as he assured me that we would figure something out.
But ten minutes later, in the bathroom, sitting on the closed toilet lid in a tee and panties after Kingston finished securing the protector to my leg, as he stood and reached to start pulling off his clothes, I finally understood.
I was taking a shower.
With Kingston.
A low, whimpering, pained noise escaped me as his hands worked his pants and boxer briefs off, leaving him beautifully naked before me.
"Believe me," King said, pulling me up, yanking my shirt off of me, "I know," he told me, nodding. "It's not forever," he added, hands sinking into my hips to lift me the short distance to the shower, reaching in to run the water before looking down at me as his hand slid down my back, over my ass, then inward, snagging the waistband of my panties, dragging them down.
Torture.
It was downright torture to be there with him, naked, climbing into a hot shower, and not being able to do anything about the aching need in my belly, the pooling wetness between my thighs, the hardness of him stabbing into my ass cheek.
But we both breathed deep, gritted out teeth, tried to calm the chaos in our systems.
His hands worked shampoo into my hair, making confused noises as his fingers got tangled, as long strands got caught between them.
But there was no giggling at his expense when his hand reached for a new bar of soap and started running it over my upper chest.
"I can..." I started to object, voice airy.
"I want to," he cut me off, hand moving circles over my breast, then the other, down my belly.
I'd never had someone wash me, would have found the very idea weird, awkward if you so much as suggested it before.
But I was pretty sure there was nothing in the world more erotic than a man running a bar of soap all over your body, suds and water slipping down your skin, his breath warm in your ear, his hard body against your back.
Unable to help it, my head fell backward onto his shoulder, turning into his neck, letting out a small whimper.
His hand stilled where it was halfway down my thigh, his breath shivering out of his chest before he started a path back upward, gliding inward, running the bar between my legs.
Testing me out, I thought.
And when a moan escaped me, his hand moved up, anchoring across my middle, his other hand slid down between my legs, sliding up my slit, finding my clit, working it in excruciatingly slow circles.
My arms went up, winding around the back of his neck, steadying myself as the pleasure started to course through me, build, crest.
Two fingers moved downward, sinking inside of me as his thumb pressed harder circles around my clit.
He thrusted lazily; a low growling noise moved through his chest.