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I ache to reach for my cock, but I don't. The woman didn't even want to kiss me on the plane.
There's no way I would disrespect her by stroking off in front of her.
Chapter 9
Slick
I've always considered myself a patient person, but it's quickly wearing thin where Aro is concerned. We’ve been in Albuquerque less than twenty-four hours and the grumbling, complaining, bitching under his breath is already grating on my nerves.
There's a clear difference in meeting with someone for weekly therapy appointments and being around them twenty-four seven. Patients are either on their best or worst behavior when they come in to speak to me and even then they're only there for forty-five minutes to an hour, sometimes less. If they get pissed off with something I say or how they're feeling, they get up and storm off.
I know I need to have some allowances for his bad moods. The man is in an impossible position. He isn't exactly taking it out on me but his constant irritation makes my skin itch. He thanked me after I helped him up off of the shower floor yesterday. He was grateful. I could see it in his face, even though he refused to look me in the eye.
He quickly went to bed, and I didn’t see him again until this morning. Thankfully, he’s not acting like a child. He knew he had physical therapy mid-morning, and I didn’t have to go into his room and wake him up. I didn’t get any pushback from him. He didn’t tell me he wasn’t ready or that tomorrow would be better for him, and that’s a good sign.
But his attitude and agitation has continued since getting into the car. We’re only a few blocks from the hospital so it’s a short drive. It stopped him from complaining after shifting numerous times in his seat.
“You should have gotten a bigger fucking car,” he grumbles.
I clench the steering wheel and my jaw in irritation. I know the way he’s acting is about his injury and his pain level despite him refusing to take any medicine to stop it.
I would call his personality laid back and chill. Before he got hurt, I could get lost in his laughter, let it wash over me. And it happened often. He’s a happy guy. I know eventually, if he allows himself, he’ll get back to that point.
The impatient side of me hopes that happens soon, because the bitching about everything is almost too much for me to handle.
“I had to fold into this motherfucker,” he continues to complain.
“I’ll see about getting an SUV,” I say, turning my blinker on to pull into the hospital parking lot. “I’m sure there’s someplace in Albuquerque that has rentals with wheelchair ramps.” It’s almost impossible to hold back a chuckle when he growls in my direction.
I turned to face him after putting the car in park, to find him glaring at me as if I had the audacity to even hint that he would need such accommodations. As much as he hates to have to fold himself into the smaller car, I’m not strong enough to lift his ass into the seat of a truck or SUV. That would be more comfortable… for him.
“It’s only a couple of blocks from the house,” I offer, my face stoic and calm. “If you got started heading this direction at seven, you’d probably make it in time for your ten o’clock therapy appointment.”
His jaw drops open. Shocked that I would be giving him hell right now, and I feel a twinge of guilt for saying the words.
I scrape my hands over my face, taking a deep breath before looking at him again. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m tired. I shouldn’t take my irritation out on you.” I give him a pointed look, hoping he catches my drift, because him taking his irritation out on me is exactly what he’s been doing since we arrived yesterday.
He opens his car door, and that spurs me into action. By the time I get out of the driver's seat and make it around to the other side of the vehicle to pull his walker from the backseat, he's already in a standing position. He waves off the valet at the front of the hospital that has a wheelchair before heading to the elevator. I don't know if he's just being stubborn once again or if he's made a personal goal that he's not going to need those types of accommodations any longer.
I check him in at the front desk when we get into the area for physical therapy. He's got sweat pooling at his temples. His breathing is a little ragged and his cheeks are flushed with exertion. I don't say a word to him. I take a seat a couple of chairs over and pick up a sports medicine magazine.
