“Not yet,” he insists, turning back so he can lean down and give me a kiss.
It’s a sweet one, slow and promising. I don’t pull away as soon as I should and he tilts his head to deepen it. Morning sex! Yes. We need it now. Bend me over that half-empty box of donuts.
My hand slides down his washboard abs toward the waistband of his pajama pants. A deep rumble rolls through him like a barely tamed growl as he breaks the kiss and shakes himself out of the moment.
“Not a great idea,” he chides, leaning his forehead down so it touches mine. “I don’t need any more injuries today.”
Poor guy. He’s been through the wringer with me. I tell him that, and he shrugs.
“Worth it.”
I laugh and head over to grab the first aid kit we keep in the cabinet near the pantry.
Now that we’re done eating, I want to check on his cheek and see if it needs stitches.
All through breakfast, he kept ice and pressure on it. The wound itself has stopped bleeding, which is good, but the swelling hasn’t gone down.
“Sit down at the table.”
“I can tend to my own wounds,” he points out with an arrogant chuckle.
I ignore him and push him back until he hits the chair and sits. Then I head back to the sink to wash my hands as if I’m scrubbing in for surgery. He watches me carefully as I round the island. I’m wearing running shorts and a long sleeve workout top. It didn’t used to be so tight around my bust, but Connor certainly doesn’t mind the new fit.
At the table, I start to rifle through the contents of the kit. Connor draws me close and starts drawing lazy circles on my thigh. I shove aside the gauze, saline, and antibiotic ointment until I find a little brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide. I’d prefer iodine, but it’ll work.
“Lean back.”
He resists. “I don’t think you need to do all this. It’s fine.”
“Humor me. I love this face the way it is. I’d rather you weren’t left with a big ol’ scar.”
He laughs as he tips back. “It’d make me look more manly, don’t you think?”
I restrain an eye-roll and press a hand to his chest to keep him from sitting up. “Believe me, you don’t need any help in that department.”
Once he’s settled, I step to the side and lean in to get a closer look at his wound. His hand finds the same spot on my thigh and I flinch and then relax, liking the feel of his hand on me.
“Okay, hold still now.”
Carefully, I pour a little of the antiseptic over the cut on his cheek, catching all the excess with a folded wad of gauze as it rolls down his face. His jaw twitches and I’m sure it stings like hell, but he doesn’t utter a word.
I pat it with the gauze a few times then happily proclaim, “No stitches needed.”
“Good.” His big ex-quarterback hand is still on my thigh, curving around it like it’s a damn football. His fingers dig in gently like he can’t get enough. He slowly pushes his palm up higher, under the hem of my shorts.
“Connor,” I warn.
“What? I need a distraction from the pain.”
I swat his hand away playfully and open up a butterfly bandage. I lean over him to position it across his cut and his hand returns to my thigh as he clears his throat. Oh right, my boobs are basically smashed against his face.
I laugh and step back, wiping my hands and then propping them on my hips. “The swelling isn’t so bad. Don’t worry, you’ll heal up nicely.”
He rolls his eyes and stands, dwarfing me.
“All done with me, doctor dearest?” he teases, leaning down to kiss me. “If so, I need to shower.”
Noah’s voice suddenly carries down the stairs. “Hey! CONNOR! I’ve thought of how you can make amends!”
“I thought letting you punch me in the face was amends enough!” Connor calls out jokingly.
“Nah man, that was step one. Step two is way better!”Step two is way better. The Red Sox are scheduled to play one of their last regular season games at Fenway Park early that afternoon, and Noah insists that Connor has to buy us tickets.
“And not nosebleeds either, chump. We’re getting the best seats money can buy.”
Connor plays along, telling me to go shower and get ready. I throw on jeans, a Red Sox T-shirt, and the matching navy hat I’ve had for years. Outside, we head toward the T, and for the first few blocks, Connor and I play at keeping a distance, but eventually he laughs and takes my hand in his.
Noah groans. “Is this how it’s going to be?”
If I have anything to say about it, then yes, absolutely. Connor isn’t allowed to let go of my hand all day. We take the T over to Fenway Park and get off at Kenmore Station. It’s a short walk from there to the stadium, and we join the masses flooding toward the box offices. At the ticket counter, Noah and I hang back while Connor waits in line.