Chapter 27
Joel came home with me after they discharged me and decided he was taking care of me.
I woke up on day three to the smell of something burning and Joel swearing in the kitchen. By the time I made it down the hall, he was standing at the stove, glaring at a pan of bacon like it had personally offended him.
"Why won't it lay flat?"
I leaned against the doorframe and didn't answer.
He was wearing my sweatpants, tight across his thighs because I had six inches less leg than he did, and one of my old practice jerseys with PIPER stretched across his shoulders.
He hadn't packed for more than one night.
He'd bought a toothbrush at the CVS down the street and otherwise just borrowed, wore my clothes, slept in my bed, took up space in my apartment like he belonged there.
And it was driving me crazy. Seeing him in my clothes, having him in my bed, right there? Every moment of every day, it felt like I was going to lose my mind if I didn’t get my mouth on him.
This was it. This was the thing we'd talked about on the beach, the impossible math finally working out: Joel Coffey making breakfast in my kitchen with bedhead and bare feet, my name on his back. I'd wanted this for so long I'd stopped letting myself imagine it.
The bacon popped, and he flinched, then jabbed at it with a spatula. My dick worked fine, and Joel Coffey was standing in my kitchen half-naked and losing a fight to breakfast meat.
He turned around and caught me staring. His eyes dropped to where my boxers weren't doing much to hide my interest, and for a second heat flickered across his face. Then his gaze moved up to my bandaged hand, and the heat died.
"You should sit down," he said. "I'll bring it to you."
"I don't want to sit down."
"Red—"
"I've been sitting down for three days." I pushed off the doorframe and crossed the kitchen toward him. "I've been resting. I've been good. I've been so fucking patient, Joel."
He didn't move away, but he didn't move toward me either. "The doctor said—"
"The doctor said to rest my hand." I stopped in front of him, close enough to feel the warmth coming off his skin. "He didn't say anything about the rest of me."
Joel swallowed. I reached out with my good hand and hooked a finger into the waistband of the borrowed sweatpants.
"Red," he protested. "You just had surgery."
"Days ago."
"Your hand—"
"Isn't invited."
He almost smiled. His mouth curved, his eyes going dark the way they did when he wanted something. His hand came up to touch my face, and I leaned into it, already calculating angles, already thinking about the counter behind him and whether my hand could take the pressure if I braced against it.
Then he stepped back.
"Eat your breakfast," he said. "I'll clean up."
I stood there in my boxers, half-hard and rejected, while he turned back to the stove. He started scrubbing the pan like it was the most important task in the world.
"Joel."
"The bacon's getting cold."
"I don't care about the bacon."
"You need to eat. You're still on painkillers. You shouldn't take them on an empty stomach."
I stared at the back of his head, at PIPER stretched across his shoulders. He was sending me away like I was a child who needed managing.
"I'm not hungry for breakfast."
He shut off the water. His shoulders were tight. When he turned around, he wore the face he wore for judges and cameras, not for me.
"You need to heal," he said. "Four days isn't very long, Red."
"It's long enough."
"For what?"
I crossed the distance between us and kissed him, putting everything I couldn't say into it. He made a sound against my mouth and his hands came up to grip my arms, and for one perfect second I thought he was going to give in.
Then his fingers found the edge of my bandage and he pulled back like he'd been burned.
"We can't," he said. "Not yet. Not until you're—"
"Until I'm what? Fixed?" I held up my bandaged hand between us. "What if this is it, Joel? What if the hand never works right again and you can't touch me until I'm better?"
His jaw tightened. "I just don't want to hurt you."
"You're hurting me right now."
Joel flinched, and I was too tired of being handled to feel bad about it.
"Red," he said quietly. "I'm trying to take care of you."
"I don't need you to take care of me. I need you to stop looking at me like I'm going to break."
“I’m just trying to help you, Red.”
"I didn't ask for your help!"
Neither of us moved. Joel's face went blank, and I knew I'd gone too far, but I couldn't figure out how to come back from it.
"Okay," he said quietly. "Okay."
He turned toward the hallway. I grabbed his arm with my good hand.
"Don't walk away from me."
"You just told me you don't want my help. What do you want me to do, Red?"
"I don't know." I shoved him, one-handed, not hard enough to move him but hard enough to make a point. "I'm not one of your programs, Joel. You can't just choreograph me into being okay."
His jaw tightened. "Don't push me."
"Or what?" I shoved him again.
His hand closed around my wrist, the grip tight enough to bruise. "I said don't push me."
"Make me stop."
We stared at each other. His grip on my wrist hadn't loosened.
"You want me to stop being gentle?" His voice had dropped, gone rough. "You want me to stop treating you like you're made of glass?"
"Yes."
"You sure about that?"
I leaned in, close enough that his breath was warm on my face. "I've been sure for four days. You're the one who keeps pulling back."
He went still. I thought he was going to let go, step away, shut down completely.
Then he kissed me. His hand stayed locked around my wrist, the other fisting in my hair to pull my head back, and when I opened my mouth, he took it like he was trying to prove something.
I grabbed the front of the jersey with my good hand and pulled him closer. He let me, his grip on my wrist tightening, his other hand twisting in my hair until my scalp stung.
"This what you wanted?" he said against my mouth.
"Yes."
He spun me around and walked me backward until my shoulders hit the wall. The impact knocked the breath out of me, and before I could recover, his hand was between my legs, pressing up hard, and his mouth was on my neck, biting down until I gasped.
"You wanted this." His voice was low and dangerous. "You pushed until you got it. Now take it."
His other hand slid down my chest, my stomach, and shoved past the waistband of my boxers. When his fingers wrapped around me, already half-hard and aching, a groan tore out of my throat. He stroked once, twice, thumb dragging over the head, and my hips jerked forward.
"Four days," he said, tightening his grip. "Four days of watching you walk around in your underwear, sleeping next to you every night, and you think I didn't want this?"
"Then why—"
"Because you almost died." The words came out rough, almost angry. "Because I wasn't there, and you almost died and I couldn't—"
He cut himself off and kissed me instead, brutal and deep, his tongue in my mouth while his hand worked me until I was fully hard and leaking against his palm.
"I'm not fragile," I managed.
"Shut up." He twisted his wrist on the upstroke and I choked on a moan. "Stop talking."
I pulled back far enough to look at him. His eyes were dark, his lips swollen, and he looked wrecked.
"Make me," I said.
His grip on me tightened. He shoved the sweatpants down his own hips and kicked them aside. Then he was crowding me toward the bathroom, one hand on my hip, the other reaching past me to turn on the shower.
"What are you doing?"
"Getting you wet." He pushed me under the spray, boxers and all, and the water was cold enough to make me gasp. "You wanted me to stop treating you like you might break? Fine."
He stepped into the shower still wearing my jersey, the fabric soaking through instantly, clinging to his chest and shoulders. His cock was hard, tenting against the lower hem of the jersey.
"Get on your knees."
I sank down onto the tile. The water warmed, streaming down my face, and I looked up at him standing over me wearing my name, his cock inches from my mouth.
"You're going to be good for me," he said, pressing his thumb against my lower lip the way he had that first night in the truck, when my mouth was still split and swollen. "You're going to do exactly what I tell you. And if it's too much, you say stop. Understood?"
I nodded.
"Words."
"Understood."
He threaded his fingers through my wet hair and tilted my head back. "Then open your mouth."
I opened my mouth.
Joel fed his cock past my lips, one hand fisted in my hair, pushing slow and steady. The water streamed down around us and I tasted salt and skin and want. He pushed deeper, and I relaxed my throat, took him until my nose pressed against his stomach and his grip in my hair went tight.
"Fuck." His voice was barely a rasp. "Look at you."
From this angle, his face was hidden, just the wet jersey plastered to his torso, my number stretched across his chest. I pulled back and sucked hard on the head, tongued the slit, and his hips jerked forward.
"Hands behind your back."
I obeyed, crossing my wrists at the base of my spine, my bandaged hand throbbing dully against my good one.
The position left me off-balance, completely at his mercy.
He kept one hand in my hair, the other braced against the tile wall, and he started to fuck my mouth hard and relentless, like four days of holding himself in check had built up pressure he couldn't contain anymore.
I took it, let him hit the back of my throat again and again, tears streaming down my face and mixing with the shower spray.
"Still think I'm being too gentle?" he asked above me.
I moaned around him, the vibration making his rhythm stutter.
"Jesus Christ, Red." He pulled out long enough for me to gasp a breath, then pushed back in. "Your fucking mouth."