Chapter 27
I LOOK AT MY REFLECTION, the light catching gold thread in my navy bra and panties. In the light of the otherwise oppressive bulbs of my bathroom vanity, the set is as substantive as a heavy mist. Exactly what I was going for.
As if in response, my abdomen cramps brutally.
I sigh. I hate being right.
The pain flares started in earnest a few hours after Thursday’s interlude with Ian, at an intensity that suggested they were making up for the relatively gentle cycle I experienced last month.
I didn’t even end up working out yesterday, though now I wonder if I should have given it a shot.
I rallied for today’s endurance class, and the external, objectively optional discomfort of the workout was at least a distraction from the pain that I had zero influence over, so… silver lining?
I uncap the ibuprofen on the edge of the sink, dry-swallowing two of the pills, then bend over to drink straight from the tap.
Straightening, I give myself a few moments to admire the new lingerie.
The package had been waiting on the doorstep when I got home from Firehouse.
I figured I could at least find out if it looks good before putting it away until it can be of use.
I turn to the side and smirk. It does look good. And it sure as hell is going to be put to good use.
Eventually.
Outside of a few stolen moments between classes, Ian and I haven’t had much time to enjoy one another.
Seth, the evening coach, called out sick Thursday afternoon, leaving Ian to cover the p.m. classes, and a personal training client rescheduled his session to coincide with what should have been yesterday’s nap time.
Between our respective shifts at the gym and last-minute, time-sensitive responsibilities—a client in Tempe, Arizona, had to fill in for a summer school session and suddenly needed revised rubrics before the weekend—evenings haven’t worked out.
And while we are independent adults with our own personal living quarters, I haven’t mustered the courage to propose a sleepover. Because I am a coward.
And now that the cramps have started—
Pain grips my abdomen, barbed wire snagging on something deep in my pelvis, and my grip on the sink goes white knuckle.
I count my breaths, the searing pain lasting one…
two… three cycles, fading to a dull ache by the fourth breath.
When I catch my reflection this time, the sudden beading of sweat out-glistens the sparkly bra.
One more jagged inhale, and the ache is more manageable but still not something I can ignore.
I wipe at the sweat on my brow, tears of frustration and pain welling in my eyes.
It isn’t fair! I have someone I actually want to be physical with, even if I’m secretly terrified of the prospect.
And dammit, my boobs look great in this bra!
It’s with a chest full of self-pity that I wail, “What a fucking waste!”
“Ellie?” Ian’s voice is sharp, and the floor vibrates with rapid footsteps.
Shit! I turn and scramble for my robe on the back of the door. Before I can grab it, the half-open door swings open. I jump back, barely avoiding getting hit.
Ian halts in the doorway. “Oh, sorry! Are you okay? The door was open, and I heard…” His eyebrows go high as he realizes what I’m—or am not—wearing. “This a bad time?”
I shake my head, going for casual, but disappointment weighs on my chest. This is about to get really awkward. “No! I’m okay. Sorry. I was going to get my robe.”
“Why would you be sorry?” he asks, taking a slow perusal of my scantily clad form.
A libidinous smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, and I’m keenly aware of the negligible opacity of my bra and panties.
The heat in his expression is a lure and a warning, my responding desire forcing me still, wanting him to look, while the prey animal in me freezes at the threat of danger.
Not of him, not rationally, but of what so often accompanies a scenario like this. Pain. Rejection—
“You look amazing,” he says, his voice thick.
I smile at the compliment. But reality brings me back to earth quickly. “I’m…” My brain provides the euphemism Cole used to use. “Out of commission.”
Ian frowns, and I imagine he’s parsing through my phrasing.
After a second, his eyes go wide, and his gaze drops to my abdomen.
Instead of changing the subject or, Cole’s go-to, leaving the room entirely, he steps into the bathroom with me, closing the distance between us.
My protest builds in my throat, but before I can voice it, he makes a sympathetic sound, placing one of his broad hands below my belly button.
My relief is immediate; the man is a human heating pad.
“I’m sorry.” He kisses my forehead. “You need anything?”
The consideration is a balm. No hesitation, no discomfort, just sweetness. “No. But thank you. I can…” I point toward the door and my robe, fumbling for words again. “I can cover up.”
He frowns, pulling his hand away. “Why? Oh! Are you cold?”
Cold? In June? In Texas? But I take a cursory look down my front and have to concede; physical evidence would suggest a chill.
I bite the bullet. “Cole would get frustrated when I’d have a flare-up. When he’d see me like this, but we couldn’t have sex.”
Ian scowls. “What, like an animal?”
“I—” I never thought about it that way. “I guess?”
Disgust mars his handsome features. “Ellie, that’s fucked-up. You look incredible, but it’s not like I can’t just appreciate the view.” His expression lightens. “As long as you don’t mind me appreciating it. You look… different.”
“Different?”
“Some of it is what you’re in. No tape this time, more…you. But your body’s changed in the past few weeks.”
He watches me for a second, chewing in his lower lip in thought.
“Here, face that way.” He points to the mirror over the sink.
When I continue to stare at him in confusion, he leans closer, crowding me, and growls, “I’ve picked up that you’re into the authoritative thing, but don’t make me tell you twice. ”
My heart leaps at the sudden shift to Commanding Ian tone, and I suck in an involuntary breath of surprise.
He kisses my temple. “Seriously. Please don’t make me tell you again,” he says, his voice normal. “Because I can’t think of a follow-up.”
I bite back a smile and nod, moving toward the sink.
Behind me, Ian closes and then locks the bathroom door.
The sound of the bolt driving home makes me flinch, but I force my features to relax as he makes his way back to me.
His arms wrap around my torso, and I back-burner my panic as the expanse of him scorches into me.
“As I was saying, there’s more definition now. I have no memory of your serratus anterior”—he traces a finger along the muscle visible below my bra band, toward my ribs—“on the night we met. Though that might have been covered by the tape.”
I shiver at the contact, swallowing hard as his hand makes a languid pass down my side. A low sound escapes me, and he does it again, eliciting the same response.
“There wasn’t as much definition in your tone then, but your back…
” He places his hands flat against my shoulder blades.
“Your teres minor”—his thumbs run over a muscle high on my back—“and teres major—” He shifts to trace above the band of my bra, almost under my arms, the touch sparking across my skin. “Those were memorable.
“Your lats,” he continues, sliding down from my bra to the waistband of my panties, “weren’t as pronounced then.” His hands move lower and freely massage my backside. “And your gluteus maximus,” he says, dreamily. “I think it’s higher now.”
“I’ll trust you on that.” I’m starting to feel lightheaded. “It was a particular favorite of yours that night.”
Ian nods, but the movement transitions to a shake. “Not just that night.” He gives my ass a double-handed squeeze, then releases me to take hold of my hips, closing the space between us. The length of his erection presses against the channel of my spine.
Despite the confidence reinforced by every interaction I’ve had with this man, a swell of fear rises in my chest. Stress about his desire, his needs, my guilt, my pain—
“Ellie.” Ian’s direct tone has me meeting his eyes in the mirror. “I’d like to try something, if you’re okay with it.”
I nod, but he doesn’t look convinced.
Worry tugs at his brows. “You can always tell me to stop. No…” He halts, changing the angle of his body. The hard heat of him leaves my back, taking with it the bulk of my anticipatory stress. “No pressure.”
At his words, the tension gripping my chest releases, like a weight vest falling away. I take in a long breath, like I would for pain abatement, and stare at him.
“Is that what you needed?” he asks softly.
I nod. I didn’t know that; how did he?
“Ah! I get it.” He smiles, like he’s proud of himself for solving a riddle. It’s so disarming, I smile back.
“As you were?” I encourage and shimmy my shoulders.
His responding grin is feral. “With pleasure.” Still maintaining his distance below the belt, he grips my shoulders and pulls me firmly against his chest. “You have more definition here, too, in your deltoids,” he continues, and outlines the band of muscle from the back of my upper arms to where they arc toward each bicep.
“And there’s no missing these Twinkies.” Before I can ask what he’s talking about, he kisses the muscle between my neck and shoulder, which has grown more pronounced in the past weeks; bra straps have been killer.
“You have the most beautiful trapezius,” he mutters against my neck.
I giggle, but when he nibbles at the same spot, the sound turns into a whimper. His eyes are intent on my reflection as his hands trace down my sides, resting above my hips.
“Your waist—”
“I don’t have a waist,” I insist. “I’m built like a thumb.”