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Cleo climbs up on the mattress, leans over me. She holds up... some kind of towel? I watch a smile light up her face. She looks... proud. Her hand is on my face again. “You can’t get a bath yet, not for a little while longer, because of your central line. But I don’t think you’ve had one since the wreck. I thought it might feel good.”
I BLINK, AND CLEO DRAGS a warm cloth over my calves, and... it does feel good. I clench my fist, because I want to touch her.
Someone knocks, and Cleo leaves. Fuck. The water dries cool on my skin. My dick stirs.
She comes back into my plane of vision with an armful of... clothes. From the laundry. “I bought some things before I left Atlanta, then I ordered some other stuff from a 24-hour delivery service.” She’s smiling. I think I should smile, but I’m too tired.
She sets the clothes beside me and strokes my knee. It’s too much. I scurry off the bed before I realize that’s crazy. Then I look around, searching out an excuse for it. But I can’t think straight. I turn back toward the bed and right my IV lines.
Damnit...
She acts like she doesn’t notice I just freaked out. She lays a pair of boxer-briefs and long, dark gray pants over the bed’s rail. I manage the underwear, but my hips hurt. I feel my heartbeat in the bones. My hands can’t seem to hold onto the pants.
I get back on the bed and turn away from her. I cover my face with my arm.
“I can help you get your pants on,” she says in a voice that sounds like sunny clouds. “You helped me out of mine so many times, it’s only fair, right?”
“I don’t need them,” I rasp.
“Okay then. No pants. I’m going to untie this robe if that’s okay. Get your chest bare. If you don’t mind?”
I grunt, because that towel’s on my thigh—and I can feel my dick throb, somewhere...
She washes my hips and belly, gently. I can’t feel myself like normal, but I can pay attention to the rhythm of her movement. And it’s slow. I’m not embarrassed. I would be—if not for this.
My balls... They feel... full. I’m surprised to find I want to touch them.
I want her to touch them.
Can I ask her? Would she jack me off like this? Or is it too fucked up?
She drags the towel over my sore ribs. It feels nice.
Last time I was here, I tried so hard to forget my body. To pretend it wasn’t really there, and neither was the pain. But this... it’s good. Tears brim in my eyes as my dick stiffens. I love her. I just want to be inside her.
I would ask... I just... can’t.
She’s beside me now, leaned over me. She’s close to... fuck. The line. She can see my central line up close. It’s called a line, but it’s a tube. A little tube that goes into my chest.
She won’t want to touch me anymore. My dick forgets its gladness. I try to be still.
Cleo... steady. Soft. The cloth goes up my arms, my neck, my face. I want to cry. I want to ask her why she’s doing this. There’s... my robe off me. A towel. Then my hair is wet. She’s stroking... I can hear the bubbles by my ears. So nice and cool.
She tucks a towel around my hair, and I look up into her eyes.
Her gaze softens against mine. “Am I doing okay?”
She strokes my forehead.
I inhale slowly through my nose. “Why... are you still here?”
She sits down by me, takes my hand. “Because you’re here.”
“The water was cold.” Did I say that out loud?
Cleo’s breasts press against her shirt. She’s talking. Emory. Her hand is on my shoulder. The hurt one. I don’t know why... I feel my balls draw up.
Dilaudid. God... I’m fucking glowing. My dick’s hard. I need to fuck her. She’s talking... about papers. Signing papers.
