Jackson
Everything’s foggy in the way it always is when I first wake up, but this morning my senses are overwhelmed by the aroma of coconuts and soft fabric folded in the tight clutch of my hand and a shaft of sunlight pouring in through disheveled curtains.
We didn’t fall asleep cuddling. We each lay flat on our backs, staring as moonbeams reflected onto the ceiling and danced across the painted wood planks.
My hand crept across the sheets until my pinky was nudging hers, begging for the intimacy of her touch.
Everything calmed inside me the moment her little finger looped around mine.
My lungs inflate with her scent, and when my eyes slowly focus, there’s a mess of brown hair inches from my face. Inhaling slow and deep, I loosen my grip on Kate’s shirt and, careful not to wake her, relax my hand across her hip.
Is this what mornings were like before?
Quiet and soft—the type of morning that, despite the twinges of sharp pain in my head, makes me feel like all of this is doable. I feel normal. I’m not a burden being woken up with a fistful of pills thrust in my face by a wife who only ever looks at me with adoration I don’t deserve.
Kate’s chest rises and falls in a steady cadence. My index finger smooths across bare skin, following the gathered waistband of her pajama bottoms. For once, I welcome the way my pulse hammers through my skull so hard I can hear it.
My tongue darts out to lick my lips, and my hand settles over the soft skin of her lower stomach.
I pop my head up to get a better look at her as she sleeps, and I’m met with a softness in her expression that I don’t recognize.
Because when Kate walked into my hospital room with a smile or when she laughed alongside me during Odessa’s party, there was always something severe about her expression.
Something uncomfortable, like a mask that doesn’t quite fit.
And last night…the pain in her eyes was unlike anything I’d ever seen.
I’m not going to kill myself.
Not that I haven’t thought about it. I have.
I’ve eyeballed the amber plastic bottles filled with prescription medication and questioned what the right dosage would be to put us all out of our misery.
But then Kate—fucking Kate—walks in and calls me handsome, and all I can think about is how quickly that smile of hers would fall to ruin; she’d probably never walk into a room without an anxious feeling again.
Like she’s done to me many times, I drag the pad of my thumb back and forth across her skin.
She’s warm and my blood’s hot, wanting more.
I want to touch her everywhere, glide my hand up her shirt and between her thighs.
And I want to squeeze her hip bone, trace the curve of her spine, and cup her face in my hands.
Her eyelashes flutter, then her body rolls into my touch, forcing my fingers to nudge the waistband of her pants.
I’m so damn close to a place I haven’t let myself think about touching before now.
I freeze—caught between my head telling me to stop and my heart screaming at me to continue.
Her hips twitch before widening slightly in invitation.
Fuck, I should’ve kissed her last night.
I stare at her soft, strawberry pink lips. Her bottom lip has a natural pout in need of a gentle tug between my teeth. Lips like that deserve to be kissed well and often. The tendons in my groin pull tight at the thought, and I reluctantly withdraw my hand before I do anything stupid.
She wanted me to kiss her, but I couldn’t do it.
Of all the things I’m interested in learning about my old life, the feel of Kate’s lips and the weight of her body on mine are both high on the list. But she wants to be touched by her husband.
According to a piece of paper, and a warped indent in my ring finger, that’s who I am. But until I feel like him, I can’t.
Fuck me, I desperately want to be the lucky bastard who’s married to—in love with—Kate Wells.
Kate sleepily murmurs, “Mornin’, handsome.”
“Morning.” Unable to stop myself from feeling her soft skin on mine, in whatever way I can get it, I cuff her wrist gently. That’s a safe place to touch. Doesn’t give either of us the wrong idea, but I still get the overwhelming pleasure of keeping her close.
She squints at me with glossy eyes. “How do you feel this morning?”
“Honestly?”
Kate lifts her head just enough to run a hand under it, flaring her hair across the pillow above her. “Always be honest with me.”
“This is the closest to normal I’ve felt.”
She gives me a sleepy smile. “Your head doesn’t hurt?”
“Oh, no. Feels like somebody’s digging at my brain like it’s a bucket of too-hard ice cream.
I mean I only remember a few weeks of my thirty-some years on this Earth, and this is the first time I haven’t been a patient.
A brain injury survivor. That poor sap who forgot everything.
I’m simply a guy waking up next to the most jaw-droppingly beautiful woman he’s ever seen.
” A guy running his hands all over her and picturing doing so much more, to be specific.
“Instead of waking up to you reminding me to take my pills, asking if I need help getting out of bed to go to the bathroom, and sitting in that awful wooden chair staring at me while I eat breakfast.”
Her jaw ticks. I can see her turning my words over. Trying to make sense of what I’m getting at.
“I do those things because…” She trails off, brushing a stray curl of cocoa hair away from her temple.
“At this juncture, I’d be worried if you stopped bullying me into taking care of myself,” I say while watching her mouth, taking pride in the way it tilts and lifts.
The sun would be jealous to know how much warmth and light Kate’s smile brings to my day.
She makes being alive easier. “But…can we wake up like this first, with a moment of normalcy before you start fretting over me? Will you move back into our room?”
Her swallow messes up the delicate lines of her throat. “That might not be a good idea….”
“Why not? We’re married, so it’s not breaking any rules.
I know it’s got to be a nuisance that all your clothes are here and you’re staying upstairs.
We both slept better together than apart…
. I-I want to take the harder route and try like hell to get better.
” With a shaky touch, I tug at a set of nonfunctional strings on the front of her pajama pants. “Stay here with me, Kate. Please.”
—
I must have said something right because Kate agreed without argument.
We stayed there together, sharing space and holding each other’s gaze for a long beat, and those plump, bitten-pink lips taunted me.
I considered a kiss. A soft one to see how it felt.
Maybe it would be like a scene out of a movie, where all my memories come rushing back as sparks zap between our joined mouths and romantic music randomly begins playing all around us.
But before I worked up the nerve to try, Kate slipped from the bed and went about her normal routine.
Now she’s gone—off to get Odessa ready for school, presumably. The smell of Kate’s hair is finally back on her pillow, and I fold it around my face to breathe her in while reliving the silkiness of her skin under my callused fingertips.
God, I can’t wait to fall asleep touching her tonight.
Wake up touching her. Dip my hand a little farther below her waistband.
A little farther up her stomach. Explore every inch of her bare skin, until I know her as a husband should.
I want to locate the spot that makes her back bow off the mattress and find what makes her lips part with a sated moan.
The thought of that has my heartbeat pounding heavily in my skull, heavier in my groin.
I can’t spend all morning lying in bed thinking about Kate.
It’s only going to make it that much harder to maintain boundaries when she’s back here with me tonight.
So despite the brief wave of nausea when I sit up, I force myself to the bathroom for a cool shower.
Today’s the day I’m going to start getting my life back.
I made a promise to Kate while half-asleep last night that I’d finally make an appointment to video chat with the therapist my doctor recommended.
And if there’s one thing that’ll keep me from imagining Kate naked, it’s the dread of having to talk about all my problems with a stranger.
Or so I thought.
The cold water raining down on my scalp does nothing but ease my nausea and free up space in my brain for daydreams. Kate’s full breasts held in my hands. The softness of her lips on mine. My tongue dragging across the spot on her hip where my hand rested this morning.
By the time I’m stepping out of the shower, my dick’s rock hard and tenting the plush white towel I wrap around my waist, and I’m bargaining with myself for the slow shuffle to my dresser.
Surely it’s not inappropriate to have these thoughts about my wife, or to act on them.
Certainly more appropriate than imagining any other woman.
And maybe this is a good test for how well my brain’s functioning.
Despite everything, I’m still a man—I’m able to picture a woman naked and get a raging hard-on as a result.
I may as well jerk it to determine if I’m able to orgasm… y’know, for science.
But also, if I masturbate while thinking about Kate, there’s no way my dick won’t immediately get hard when I feel her next to me in bed tonight.
Who am I kidding? I’m already well past that. I’m getting hard the moment she slips under the covers beside me regardless.