“It’s fine.”
“Sit down before I make you.”
He sits, and there’s something in his expression that makes my stomach flip. Like he’s filing that aggression away for later.
I move behind him. “Shirt off.”
“My favorite phrase.”
I help him peel off his base layer and see the bruising starting across his shoulder blade. My fingers probe gently, checking range of motion, making sure nothing’s separated.
The muscle is angry but the joint is stable.
“You’re getting ice,” I tell him.
“Yes ma’am.”
I wrap the ice pack around his shoulder, very aware of how close we are. How his skin is warm under my hands. How he’s watching me in the mirror across from the table with that look that makes everything worse.
“Three nights,” he says quietly.
“I know how long it’s been.”
“You’ve done so well.” His voice drops lower. “Better than I expected, honestly.”
“Done well?” I move to face him. “I can’t sleep. Can’t think. Can barely function without wanting to—” I cut myself off.
“Without wanting to what?” His good arm reaches out, fingers finding my hip. “Say it.”
“You know what.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“Without wanting to touch myself,” I grit out. “Happy?”
“Very.” He pulls me closer, between his knees. “Because that means it’s working. That means tomorrow, when I finally let you come, your body isn’t going to have time to think or doubt or do any of the things it usually does. It’s just going to feel.”
“And when exactly is tomorrow?”
“When we get home.” He’s smiling now. That smug, satisfied smile that makes me want to kiss him or kill him. “One more day.”
“That’s twenty-four hours.”
“More like eighteen.” His thumb traces my hipbone through my shirt. “But who’s counting?”
“I am. I’m counting every fucking minute.”
“Good. So am I.” He stands, and suddenly we’re very close. His good hand slides into my hair, tilting my face up. “You know what I’ve been thinking about?”
“How much you enjoy torturing me?”
“That too.” His thumb brushes my lower lip. “But mostly I’ve been thinking about the sounds you’re going to make tomorrow. How you’re going to look when you finally break. How it’s going to feel when your body figures out that it doesn’t need to fight this anymore.”
I’m shaking. Actually shaking.
“I hate you.”
“You keep saying that.” He kisses me—soft and brief and nothing like what I need. “Go pack. We fly out early.”
