Chapter 25
25
[Bolan]
R uthie absolutely refused to let me sleep on the couch that night, practically pushing me down the hallway and onto the bed.
“We just talked about injury and now I’ve hurt you.”
“I’m not hurt,” I lie but there’s definitely something pinching my lower left side.
“I’m only sleeping in that bed if you’re sleeping beside me.” I’d been trying to hold out, giving her the patience she needs. At the moment, I’m in too much pain to think about sex.
“Okay,” she softly says, standing beside me as I gingerly lower to the edge of the bed and then twist to lay flat on my back.
Fuck. It hurts.
“What can I do for you?” Her voice still sounds sexy, sated and willing, without intending to sound as such. And as much as I want to joke about what she could do for me, I’m not in a position to enjoy it.
“How about an icy-hot patch?” I keep them on stand-by, and I roll over, hoping Ruthie will place the patch on my lower back.
When she does, she remains standing beside the bed.
“Get in,” I mutter to the pillow, the side of my face smooshed in the luxurious fluff. I’ve missed a bed.
“I don’t know that that’s a good idea,” she counters.
“I promise to keep my hands to myself, flower.” I’ve already tucked them underneath the pillow, not only for safekeeping, but as a way to stretch out my spine.
Ruthie softly chuckles. “What if I can’t keep my hands to myself?”
I huff. Dammit . Why is she still so tempting? “Words I’ve never said . . . Not tonight, baby.”
Ruthie laughs harder. “Give me a minute.”
As I hear her step into the ensuite bathroom, I reflect on how only I would break a chair with my girl on my lap. It was worth it to see the smile on her face and hear the stuttering hitch in her breath as she came.
Plus, we were kissing again.
Kissing Ruthie is an experience. Like a full-body, soul-entrancing, heart-filled experience. Her mouth sweet while hungry. Her hands clasping at me, begging with her touch to be closer to her. And the way her body moves, like she was made for me.
When I consider how she kisses me, I don’t think about our arrangement. She isn’t my assistant. Or a nanny to Tulane. She’s my wife and mother to my child. She’s everything I need, and I’m struggling to make her see how I feel. Breaking a chair with her in my lap doesn’t exactly say I’m stable.
But I want to be. I don’t want her to ever feel unsafe with me or uncertain about my intentions. I’m here for her .
I’m hers.
And I want her to be mine.
When I hear the soft click of the bathroom light being turned off, I’m in a drowsy state. Too tired to move a muscle, but still conscious of her movements in the room. Her presence stands beside the side of the bed I’ve fallen on and for a moment I worry she wants me to slide over. Like she’s claimed this side as her side.
Instead, gentle fingernails come to my back, and she scratches along my spine.
Holy shit, does that feel incredible. I mutter into the pillow what I think is something similar to my thoughts as goosebumps break out on my flesh. I want to tell her how much she means to me. How grateful I am that she’s here for me. For Tulane.
But the magic of those fingernails scratching down my back has me passed out in a matter of minutes.