Scratch the Surface

“Your doctor said––”

“My doctor said I could walk around, but not to lift anything heavy.”

“What does that have to do with having sex?”

I got up and walked toward him. He was fast, though, and slipped around the table, putting it between us, and went to the window. “You seriously want me to chase you around this room?”

“No, I want you to sit down and eat, and then you can take another ibuprofen and go back to bed while I make some phone calls and watch TV.”

I exhaled sharply. “You…you don’t want me?”

The deadpan look I got, along with the raised eyebrows, made me feel like an idiot.

“Okay, fine, but there’s stuff I can do to you that won’t hurt me.”

“I’m sorry, why would you think I wouldn’t want to put my hands all over you too?” he nearly shouted, the frustration clear as day.

“Fine, let’s eat,” I conceded. “What’d you get?”

He eyed me suspiciously, but when I opened the bag, he darted over to the table. “Sit down,” he soothed, and passed me a cold bottle of water.

“I can’t wait until I can have a beer,” I grumbled.

The kiss I got on my temple took some of the sting out of his rejection.

We’d been out all day, and I felt gritty, so after dinner, which was amazing, I took a shower. He got in after me, and by the time he finished, I was in my sleep shorts and under the covers. I wasn’t crazy about his pajama bottoms and long-sleeve T-shirt; it was a lot of clothes to sleep in.

“Are you gonna get in bed?” I asked him, loving the way he was chewing on his bottom lip and so obviously working it out in his head.

“Maybe I’ll just sit in the chair and––”

“No, get in bed. I promise not to take advantage of you.”

“It’s not about––” He growled at me. “I don’t want to hurt you, you understand? Not in any way. Ever. Never ever.”

“Okay.” I rolled over onto my side, facing away from him, and reached up to turn off the light. A few minutes ticked by before I felt him slip under the covers, but he stayed on his side of the king-size bed. The TV came on seconds later, and he flipped channels for a bit before stopping on David Attenborough talking about some kind of bird.

“You can kiss me as long as you don’t make the sexy sound that makes my dick hard.”

I chuckled into my pillow.

“Please,” he rasped, and I heard his breath hitch as his fingers twisted into my damp hair. “You can’t possibly think, in any realm of the imagination, that I don’t want you. But you have a bump on your head the size of a golf ball, you have––”

“I’m aware of my injuries. I don’t need them listed for me.” I rolled over slowly, carefully, so I was facing him, and scooted closer. “Move your arm so I can snuggle you while you watch TV.” When he lifted it, I molded myself to his side, my hand on his chest, my head on his shoulder.

He was stressing, I could feel the tension in his muscles, and when I breathed on the side of his neck, he shivered.

“I thought you wanted to kiss me.”

“I do, but…I think I should go sit on the couch.”

“Why?” I whispered, slipping my hand down his chest to his stomach.

“You’re not listening to me.”

“No, you’ve got it wrong,” I corrected him, my hand slipping under the waistband of his pajama bottoms and wrapping around his rock-hard erection. “You’re the one not listening.”

“Oh my God,” he moaned, his hips lifting off the bed and shoving his length into my grip.

“I wanna touch you,” I husked into his ear. “I’m hurt, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make you feel good and enjoy the hell out of it too.”

My name came out garbled and aching, and the sound of him, undone, eaten up with hunger, was a surprise.

I threw the covers back and stroked him from balls to head, once and then again, and when I checked, he was watching me work his flesh.

“Say you believe me.” I got to my knees gingerly, conscious of my ribs, moving slower than normal but never once stopping what I was doing to him, dragging my fist up and down his dick. “Tell me you know how much I want to touch you.”

“Forgive me,” he begged, eyes meeting mine and holding. “I didn’t want to be selfish. I know you can’t—I thought it was better if—oh God.”

He wasn’t making much sense, but I understood enough to know he was worried. “Being in bed with someone you want the way I want you isn’t about keeping score.” I released his beautiful long, cut cock, now leaking precum, to move over him so I could ease his pajama bottoms off his hips and down to his thighs. “It’s not about reciprocating, it’s about feeling good, and this makes me feel fuckin’ amazing.”