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“I like you sweaty.”
“It’s gross; I need to shower, and these sheets will have to go. Plus now I’m leaking you and me all over them.” Violet circles my nipple with a fingernail. “You make it seem effortless, but obviously it’s not.”
“I’m an athlete, Vi. Sex isn’t a difficult workout; it’s a fun one.”
“I have a new appreciation for your level of endurance when we have sex.”
“Making you come isn’t work. I like taking care of you. I want to make you feel good. This—” I motion to my messed-up shoulder. “I don’t like not being able to give you what you need.”
“You just did.”
“No, you got you off, not me.”
Violet pushes up so she can look directly at me. “You got me off the first time. We got me off the second time. Super MC is a huge part of that equation. This is only temporary, Alex. You’ll be fucking me into oblivion again soon enough.”
“I’m looking forward to that.”
Violet gets a warm washcloth and cleans me up. That part I’m good with. Her having a shower without me is another thing I’m perpetually bummed about these days. I could get in there with her, but washing myself is awkward, and then she’ll want to do it for me. It’s one thing when she’s playing around and does it, but actually having to be my nurse is different. She’s got enough extra work to do right now.
I watch her from the bed. She rubs her boobs all over the glass and then turns around and does the same thing with her ass. Any other time I’d get out of bed to do something about all the teasing, but sex has worn me out, so I stay where I am and admire the view.
My phone dings with a text from my dad as she gets out of the shower. We’ve had daily conversations, and there’ve been a lot of messages back and forth about how I’m feeling and the progress—or lack of—I’m making. This time he’s letting me know he and my mom will be at the house in about fifteen minutes. I put on a clean pair of sweats and find a zip-up hoodie so I don’t have to mess around with my shoulder too much.
“So, I did something, and I don’t want you to be upset with me,” Violet says.
I stop fighting the zipper and look at her.
She’s wearing a red bra and matching panties. They’re satiny. And distracting. This feels like a set-up.
“You can’t use that as a conversation starter without making someone edgy, Violet.”
“I’m making it sound worse than it is.” She crosses over and adjusts my zipper, pulling it up for me. “So I figured your mom needed some help in the hair department.”
“What did you do?” I sound snappy, because if there’s one thing no one should ever mess with, it’s my mom’s hair. It might be two or three decades past it’s prime, but it’s how she wears it and no one, not even my dad, has ever been able to get her to change. It doesn’t help that her longtime hairdresser supports the excessive use of hair products and teasing.
“Last night I emptied out all the cans of hairspray she brought with her, and then made sure we didn’t have any more in the house.”
“What the hell were you thinking?”
“That your mom is living in a time warp, and I’d like to be able to hug her without worrying about chemical poisoning or being ensnared in her web of hairspray! She’s fine. I managed the situation.” Violet adjusts her bra, pushing her boobs together.
“Managed it how?” Her cleavage is amazing, so it’s impossible not to stare. I hope by the end of next week I’m not so stiff. Then maybe we could do boob sex. I miss it.
“I did her hair for her this morning.”
“You what?” I’m getting hard again, which is a good sign.
“You can hold one if that’ll help you pay better attention to this conversation.” She takes my hand and puts it on her left boob. Then she puts a finger under my chin and gently encourages me to look her in the eye. “I styled her hair for her. If you could mention how nice it looks, it would be helpful. Hopefully your dad likes it, and we can convince her not to go back to her eighties time warp.”
“You styled her hair? When?”
“Six-thirty this morning. She came knocking when she couldn’t find hairspray.”
“That was nice of you.”
Violet shrugs. “I had selfish intent. I don’t want her to have helmet hair for our wedding photos. Besides, it’s time she dove hair-first into the twenty-first century. Next we’ll have to take her clothes shopping. I’m going to get my mom in on that.”
I stare at Violet and continue to hold her boob. First of all, I don’t know why no one else has ever thought to do something like this to cure my mom of her eighties-hair-band-reject ’do. Second, Violet mentioned the wedding without making a face like she’d eaten something rotten and without any external prompting from me.
