He grasps my hip to pull me closer and the rhythm of our joining quickens and the spasms of my climax overtake me. My toes curl and my mind is empty of everything but what Ian has placed there. The release that overtakes me floats me onto an ocean of sensation as wave after wave of delirious joy buffets my body. I don't even know if he's come, I'm so wrapped up in what he's given me.
But his eyes have lost that fierce, hungry look and the flush in his cheeks has drained away. The tension of his body has been traded for loose-limbed satisfaction.
“Was it good for you?” I half-joke because it was so good for me that I think I’ll cry if this is how it is for him with every woman. Lie to me, I think. Let me believe.
“Better than I'd ever imagined.”
If it’s a lie, I can’t tell. His eyes are warm and full of affection. With careful hands he covers me with the comforter and strides into the bathroom, but his absence is quick. He returns with a warm washcloth and the bottle of antiseptic lotion. Sliding under the covers, he places the warm cloth between my legs, soothing my sensitive flesh. After he tosses the cloth on the ground, he spreads another thin layer of lotion on my abraded shoulder.
“I feel really good,” I admit. It’s like I’ve been drugged because I don’t feel any pain, only the lingering happiness following a euphoric event.
“I’m telling myself that sex is good for you,” he smiles and traces a finger down the side of my face. “I think I read somewhere that the endorphins released during orgasm help while you’re sick.” He turns over to place the lotion on the nightstand and clean his fingers off with a tissue. “It’s how I’m justifying my incredibly selfish actions.”
“If that’s you being selfish, I’m afraid that I will literally die if you become altruistic in bed.” I stretch a little and slide my legs along his hairy, masculine ones; the feel of his coarse hair reminds me of how wonderful it felt when his chest rubbed against mine. My ni**les respond to the memory by tightening up. The sheets and comforter slipped down below my chest as I stretched, exposing my reaction to Ian who growls in appreciation. His hand hovers over my br**sts and then drops down to drag the blankets upright.
“I’ll have to put that to the test in a few days,” he says, tucking my head against his shoulder. I let myself sprawl across his body, my thigh thrown over his and my hand threading through the light sprinkling of chest hairs before moving lower.
“A few days?” I whine. That’s not what my body wants to hear. “I thought you said sex was going to heal me quicker.”
He chuckles and the sound vibrates inside my own body as if we are connected. “I said endorphins make you feel better, not that they make you heal faster. But I do know that you should be getting some rest so sleep now.”
“Alright.” My words are slurry because I am feeling drowsy. “But I’m not waiting a few days to feel like this again.”
“Noted.” And his hard body shakes with suppressed laughter next to mine. It’s the most comforting feeling, and when I fall asleep I know it’s with a big smile on my face.
WHEN I WAKE UP LATER THAT day, it takes me a minute to orient myself. The surface I’m lying on isn’t my sofa bed nor is it the bed in the Central Towers apartment. As I sit up, the aches and pains in my shoulder and side overtake the pleasant memory of how Ian made sure I went to sleep. On the foot of the bed is a silky robe with a blue geometric pattern that’s lined with burgundy velvet. When I put it on, I realize it must be Ian’s robe—it’s far too big for me in the arms and the belt can be wrapped around my waist twice. This puts a puzzled smile on my face because I really can’t see Ian wearing something like this. If he’s not dressed in his suits or jeans, he seems to prefer almost nothing.
I take a moment to check out my injuries in the bathroom. I’d avoided looking before because that made it easier to pretend nothing happened, but the face in the mirror looks bad. My left eye is encircled by a ring of bruises and there is a swelling on my left temple. When I pull aside the robe collar, I can see my left shoulder is starting to scab over. Under my right breast, there’s a purple and yellow and black bruise that spreads from my side almost to my belly button. It’s hard to believe that Ian looked at my body and called it beautiful, because right now I look like I belong in a horror show.
As I step out into the hall, still dressed in only Ian’s robe, familiar voices drift up the stairs. My mother’s voice stops me in my tracks. I don’t want her to see me like this but she calls my name before I can run back into the bedroom and hide.
“Hey, Mom,” I say weakly. I wonder if I can magically heal by the time I hit the floor or she’ll get tired of me and leave. Both are fairy tales, but it doesn’t stop me from slowing my descent. She gets up and comes to stand at the bottom of the steps, ready to chase me upstairs should I turn tail and flee. There’s nothing like facing an angry momma—unless it’s trying to explain yourself to a disappointed one.
When I get close, she gasps and covers her mouth. My feeling of dread gets worse when she starts to cry. “This is my fault. You wouldn’t be doing stuff for Malcolm if I hadn’t gotten sick.”
“No, Mom.” I fly down the stairs and gather her in my arms. Her bony shoulders and frail body shake against me. My stricken eyes meet Ian’s sympathetic gaze and he comes over in response to my silent plea.
“Sophie, she’s fine. I had her all checked out.” Ian draws her away and sits her down on the sofa. Mom leans into him and instead of looking awkward and uncomfortable, he simply looks down at the top of her head with genuine affection. As I watch them, my heart turns over. Ian could make love to me a thousand times but nothing will ever mean more to me than his steady arm around my distraught mother.
Suddenly I want to cry, not in sadness but relief. So this is how it feels to share a burden with someone. My throat tight, I head for Ian’s fancy kitchen to find something to drink. I’m going to need something to sedate myself with so I don’t fly into his arms and confess my undying love for him.
There’s no doubt in my mind that I love him and, worse, I’m not ever going to get over him when he’s done with me. But as with my mom, there’s no sense in borrowing trouble. I resolve to take one day at a time and enjoy the sheer pleasure of letting him order my life around for a short while.
I can mourn when it’s over.