Chapter 13 James #2
“She has a name. It’s Georgie, and she’s burning up with fever. So, hold my son while I tend to my wife for a minute.”
In that moment, filled with worry for Georgie and annoyance at Josh, the words came out uninhibited. But damn, if they don’t feel right.
My son.
My wife.
Stepping back into the bedroom, I see Georgie hasn’t moved a muscle.
I lift the glass to her lips, gently coaxing her to drink.
After a few sips, I slip two pills into her hand, then sweep the temporal thermometer across her forehead.
I bought it for Weston, but it’s proving useful for Georgie, too.
The red numbers blink back at me: 102.3 degrees.
Flashing the digital reading toward Georgie, she groans, “I hate being sick.”
“Hey, sorry to interrupt.” Hearing Josh, I turn to see him in the doorway, cradling an unhappy Weston and looking totally out of his element, as he explains, “I called Bailey for advice on what to do with a crying baby. When I told her Georgie was sick, Bailey said she was going to send Dr. Melendez over.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Who’s Dr. Melendez?” croaks Georgie.
“She’s the band’s concierge doctor. She makes house calls when we’re in Nashville, and she does tele-doc appointments for us when we’re on the road.” I stand. “Keep drinking your water. I’ll give Weston a small bottle to tide him over, and then I’ll be back to check on you.”
“No, no. I should feed him.”
“Not when you’re sick, you shouldn’t. At least not until we get clearance from the doctor that it’s okay to breastfeed.”
By the time I finish giving Weston his bottle, the doorbell rings. I leave Josh holding the baby and lead Dr. Melendez through the house to the nursery, explaining what I know of Georgie’s symptoms, which are only fever and lethargy.
It feels intrusive to stay in the room with Georgie and the doctor, but I need to hear what she advises about caring for Weston if Georgie’s illness is contagious.
I lean against the wall as Dr. Melendez takes Georgie’s vitals and asks a few questions.
When Georgie admits that her left breast is red and tender, I frown.
“Let’s slip off your shirt so I can take a look,” Dr. Melendez says, and I drop my gaze to the floor. With the toe of my boot, I trace the design on the rug that covers the hardwood as I listen to their conversation.
“Yeah, it’s just as I thought. You have mastitis, which is an inflammation of the breast tissue.
I’ll call in a prescription for antibiotics, which should help if there’s an infection, but you’ll also need to express your milk from that breast. I know it can be excruciating, but it’s a necessary evil.
So, breastfeed, pump, express the milk by hand—”
“Um, how do I do that? Express it by hand, I mean. I don’t have a pump.”
“I’ll order a pump tonight,” I interject, my voice gruff.
“That’s a good idea, James, but in the meantime, until the pump arrives, you can hand express your milk as Weston feeds. To do so, it’s almost like a breast massage.” Dr. Melendez turns to me. “James, you can help. Come over here.”
Georgie’s feverish eyes rise to meet my stunned gaze. Breast massage?! Like my hands on her breast?
Blissfully unaware of the inner turmoil Georgie and I are feeling, the doctor instructs, “Georgie, I’m going to have you sit up. James, I want you to sit on the bed, straddling Georgie from behind.”
I slip off my boots and shuffle onto the bed, positioning myself behind Georgie. She sits between my legs, her bare back resting against my chest.
“Okay, so you’re going to palpate the breast tissue gently, paying extra attention to any small lumps you feel. Use soft, sweeping motions. You’re not giving Georgie a deep tissue massage, so use a light touch, James.”
“Um, okay,” I stammer. Georgie lies limp across my chest, her sweaty cheek tucked under my neck.
“Is it too painful to nurse on the infected breast, Georgie?”
“Yes,” Georgie says, her voice barely louder than a whisper. “I tried earlier, and I couldn’t do it. It hurt too much.”
“In that case, I’d like you to feed Weston on your right breast while James massages your left breast. You can use a towel to catch the milk, and once your breast pump arrives, you can pump on your left side instead.
Most pumps have pressure settings you can adjust to make pumping tolerable.
Do that until the pain goes away and your breast feels normal again. ”
“Okay,” Georgie agrees.
Dr. Melendez nods at me while I stare at her, feeling more uncomfortable with every passing second.
“I’m sure during foreplay, you probably focus your attention on the nipple,” Dr. Melendez says, “but now you’re going to skip the nipple and focus on palpating the breast itself.”
Yep, I do enjoy a little nipple action during foreplay. Not that Georgie would know that, though, since I’ve never done anything remotely sexual with my fake wife.
Unless you count jerking off to thoughts of her body. Which I don’t.
The doctor hands me a towel to put under Georgie’s breast and then nods for me to begin.
Placing one hand under her breast for support, with my other hand, I do as the doctor instructs.
Using my thumb, I make a sweeping motion across Georgie’s breast with just a little pressure.
Even though my hands are on her naked breast, there is nothing sexual about it.
It’s just awkward as fuck.
But it seems to work. Milk is trickling out. Georgie flinches a few times when I hit a sensitive area, but the doctor seems satisfied. “I’ll bring the baby in now, so that he can nurse.”
When Dr. Melendez leaves the room, I drop my hands and murmur, “You okay with all this? With me touching you?”
I feel Georgie’s head bob against my chest. “Yeah. If having you massage my boob gets it to stop hurting like hell, then massage away.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were having problems?” I ask. “I could have taken you to the doctor to get it checked out.”
She sighs. “I didn’t want to be a bother. Or at least not a bigger bother than I already am.”
“You’re not a bother, Georgette.”
She turns her head to the side, a slight smile gracing her face. “Georgette, huh? I must really be in trouble then.”
“Damn straight, you’re in trouble.” I chuckle, my head thumping against the headboard. “It appears I didn’t get out of nighttime boobie duty, after all.”
Georgie groans at my teasing.
Now that the tension between us has dissipated, it’s a little less weird when Dr. Melendez returns with Weston and we get started again.
Once she feels like Georgie and I know what to do, the doctor leaves to call in the prescription.
“You know, this is not how I imagined it would be when you got your hands on my body.”
My hand stills as I replay Georgie’s muffled statement. Is she delirious from her fever?
“Don’t stop. Keep palpating my boob, mister.”
Nope, nobody who’s delirious uses the word palpating.
Unable to restrain myself, I push for more information, my voice coming out deeper than usual. “You’ve imagined my hands on your body?”
Her head lolls to the side as her gaze flits up to meet mine for a moment. Biting her lower lip, she confesses in a whisper, “Yeah.”
My brain goes haywire as I try to come up with a suitable reply. One more courteous than say the word, Georgie, and I’ll gladly fuck you well into next week.
Then, my dick colludes with my brain’s intrusive thoughts and springs to life, straining against the confines of my jeans.
God, no, I cannot get a hard-on. Not when Georgie is pressed against me, feverish and sick, and I’m committed to massaging her breast every three hours for the next couple of days.
I think of anything I can to stop my erection from growing: my crazy high school science teacher who had halitosis, people who chew with their mouths open, the time I got so drunk I fell off the back of the stage.
And I say nothing in response to her confession.