Her last word comes out with a groan, but not like the groans she was making only minutes ago.
“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
She shoos off my worry with a wave of her hand as she gingerly rises to her feet. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
“Will. . .” I let the worry on my face express the words my climax-hazed brain can’t articulate.
“It’s my knee,” she confesses, her tone annoyed. “After standing on it for hours unbraced during the recital, I shouldn’t have danced around on it—”
“Or gotten on your knees to suck my dick?”
Jesus, I’m an A-grade fucking moron.
She tugs my shirt back over her head before snagging my pants off the ground and bridging the gap between us. “Believe me, I wasn’t feeling anything close to pain then. . .” Her glistening eyes dance between mine. “Except perhaps wondering how I could stop you coming out my ears.”
Her playfulness lightens the tension between us, but it does nothing to ease the weight on my shoulders. “How about we take a look at your knee?”
Not giving her a chance to protest, I yank on my pants before scooping down to gather her in my arms. She remains quiet, but I can feel her excitement thrumming through her veins as we weave through my living room to the kitchen on the other side.
“What’s your pain scale? One is non-existent; ten is you’re seconds from ripping out the nuts of any man within a five-mile radius?”
While she comes up with a suitable number, I move into the foyer to grab my gym bag from the closet. It has tape, stitches, bandages, and enough pain medication to cover the highest number on her list.
When I reenter the room with the goodies in my hand, Willow’s teeth catch her bottom lip. “You’ve got a whole pharmacy there, don’t you?” She drops her eyes to a nearly empty bottle. “Is that sugar-coated oxycodone?”
Smiling, I nod. “Makes them easier to swallow.”
“No shit, Sherlock. Anything coated in sugar tastes ten times better.” I feel my cock pulsate like it didn’t just release when she raises her eyes to mine and murmurs, “Except perhaps you.”
“Knee first.” I dump my medical equipment next to her naked backside that is sitting on my kitchen counter. “Then we’ll discuss back-breaking positions that don’t require knee strain.”
“I’m going to pretend I’m not pissed at your extensive knowledge of sexual positions, but you should take note that I am pissed—so much so, I’m considering switching my rating from a seven to a ten just so I can rip your nuts off.”
Like many male specimens, I hear only what I want to hear. “Your pain is a seven?”
When she halfheartedly nods, I bite out a string of curse words. Even if she had said a two, I wouldn’t be happy, but a seven; that’s high.
“Pick your poison while I get your knee wrapped.”
I nudge my head to the ten or so containers of pain medications displayed near her thigh before dragging over a barstool so I can sit between her legs. Not the smartest thing I’ve ever done in my life, but her puffy knee keeps my focus on the task at hand instead of an area much more appetizing. It’s well past dinner and way too early for breakfast, but dessert is a meal that can be consumed at all times of the day and night.
Willow rifles through the box until she finds one that is the equivalent of Tylenol. “Are you sure you don’t mind? I don’t want to stuff up your prescription schedule.”
“They’re not current.” I raise the hem on my shirt before straightening her knee. She hisses in pain from me bending it to its natural position. Wanting to keep her focus off the pain, I say, “They’re old scripts I keep around just in case they’re needed.”
“In case you hurt your back again?”
I do a weird, shruggy thing. “My injury isn’t like yours. The chances of it occurring again are low, but the worry is always there.”
My low tone reveals more than my words ever will. I’m not scared of breaking my back. I’m scared of severing my spinal cord the second time around. I’m walking proof you can do anything you set out to achieve, but if my break had been mere millimeters from where it was, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I’d be holed up in a wheelchair at an old folks home with a nurse wiping my ass every day. That scares me. It scares the fucking shit out of me.
I freeze my taping of Willow’s knee when she asks, “How did you hurt your back?”
I begin taping her leg again, hoping it will hide the shame my eyes get every time I recount my story. “I was an idiot who thought nothing would bring me down. I learned the errors of my ways when I got behind the wheel of my car drunk and crashed into a minivan, nearly killing all the occupants inside.”
Willow’s hand darts up to cover her gasp, but she remains as quiet as a church mouse.
“The driver of the minivan spent four weeks in hospital. I was there for twelve. It doesn’t change what I did, but I’m glad his injuries weren’t as dire as mine.”
