“I have 12 Grammys,” you say. “And I won an Emmy for my performance in a Johnny Cash retrospective a few years ago. I’ve been nominated for an Oscar twice for soundtracks, but that one keeps getting away. A Tony, though? That’s going to be tough.”
“Sounds like it,” he agrees. “Tonys are for Broadway, right?”
“Yes. Some people get them for producing a show, but I would like to write one someday.”
“Don’t you already have a lot going on?” He laughs loud enough that you’re pretty sure your detail can hear. “Don’t know when you’ll fit in writing a play.”
You swing his hand in yours. “Well. Most people don’t get an EGOT until they are older. I have a lot of time.”
“That’s something,” Kai says. “Are there a lot of people who do that?”
“Get EGOT status?” you say. “No. Not too many at all.”
He nods sagely. “Going down in history,” he says. “I like it. Something that the great-grandkids can brag about.”
You look at him sidelong. “You want kids one day?”
A smile splits his face. “Oh, yeah. At least two. Maybe three? Four? I dunno. I like kids a lot.”
“I like them too,” you admit. “Maybe notfour, though. I think I’d have one and then wait a few years to see how things were going.”
Kai shrugs. “Kids need brothers and sisters,” he opines. “Keeps ‘em from getting spoiled. At least, brothers do that. I wouldn’t know about sisters.”
“No, sisters do it too.” Your mouth quirks up at the mention of Noemi, to whom you’ll never be famous. Or anything greater than her pain-in-the-ass little brother, honestly. And then, thinking about Noemi: “My sister has already told me that she’d be a surrogate for me. If I wanted children one day.”
“Yeah?” Kai looks at you with fresh interest. “That’s good to know.”
He doesn’t say more on the topic, but it’s enough. Your mind bolts out of the proverbial gates like a racehorse at Churchill Downs, chasing the idea of little boys and girls that look like a mixture of you and Kai. Curly hair, tan skin. They’d be tall, you decide. Tall and strong. Sweet like Kai, and stubborn like you. Little giggles rising into the hot air on a summer night as bare feet slide on the grass and run through sprinklers.
(It feelsrealistic. Realer than just a daydream)
It’s past nine when you guys return to Kai’s condo, and you promise the guys that you will stay in for the night. Kai collapses onto the couch, but you are strangely wired. You have to coax him into a quick shower to wash off the sweat, even though all you guys did was walk a couple of miles. Indian summer in Florida truly does not play around. After, he’s a starfish on his white sheets, the fan turned on full blast and the thermostat at abrisk 68 degrees. You consider him as you pull on a pair of light pajamas.
“How’s your head?” you ask him.
“Been worse. Also been better, but I can’t complain too much,” he rumbles.
That’s the kind of answer you were looking for. There’s an idea that’s been bubbling in your mind since earlier today, an idea that’s half-inspired by the fact that you guys haven’t had sex since before his injury, and half-inspired by your newfound passion for taking care of him. You grab your phone off its dock on the dresser and toss it down beside you when you cuddle up close to his body.
“I want to make you feel good,” you murmur, running a hand over his broad chest.
His eyelids flutter. “Being with you feels good,” he replies drowsily. “I like all these sleepovers. Gonna spoil me.”
“I like it, too,” you say. “But, I mean…” You slide your palm down his taut abs and over the bulge in his boxer briefs, which is soft. “I want to make youfeel good.”
There’s a flash of his white teeth in the darkness, which is illuminated only by a lamp on the nightstand that’s had a 40-watt bulb switched out for the brighter one that used to be there. “I hope you don’t have any big ideas,” he says. “I don’t know if I’m up for it.”
“That’s the best part,” you say. You curl into his side, letting the warmth of his skin bleed into yours. You nestle your head in the crook of his armpit while your hand gently, softly manipulates his dick through his underwear. “I don’t want you to doanything. I’m going to do all the work. I just need you to lie here and enjoy.”
When your fingers creep through the fly of his undies and stroke his bare cock, Kai shudders a little.
“Can’t c-complain about that,” he replies, his breath hitching attractively.
You are aiming for “no pressure,” so you don’t get right to jerking him off. Instead, you tease him, pulling your fingers out and running them down his thighs, his tummy, anywhere you can reach. You knead his balls tenderly, rolling his sac around your palm. You let him get thick and achingly hard while you meander, touching him here and there as you breathe in the fragrance of his skin. Subtly, you adjust your own erection in your pants, and will it to behave. This isn’t about you.
Kai’s starting to lift his hips every time you brush over his cock, a small wet spot appearing on the front of the boxer briefs. Instead of giving him what he wants just yet, you rub an absent circle over his heart, which is beating strong and fast. Scratch the length of his thighs, which are thick with muscle. Trace the line of his bicep, which is approximately the size of your head. He’s healthy. He’s okay. It echoes in your head, a refrain of reassurance.
“I love you,” you tell him, hot and low in his ear. “Gonna take such good care of you.”
