24. Ramona #2
I examine the scrape before wetting a piece of gauze.
“This is going to sting.” I move between his knees so I can reach without stretching.
“I gathered that from your face.” He braces his hands against the bench. “You don’t have to look so pleased.”
“I’m concentrating.” I clean carefully, pausing when his shoulder tightens. “You can tell me when it hurts.”
“It hurts.” He looks up at me, and I soften my touch.
“Thank you for being prompt.” I replace the gauze and check that the dirt is gone.
His mouth curves, but he doesn’t turn it into another joke. I cover the scrape while he stays still, trying not to notice how warm he is beneath my fingers.
Then his hand touches my hip and stops. I follow his gaze to the chain that has slipped from my collar. His ring hangs between us, resting against my shirt.
“I’m keeping it.” I leave it visible while he looks up. “I’m not ready to put it back on you.”
“You don’t have to explain that today.” His hand loosens at my waist. “I’m glad you still have it.”
I finish smoothing the tape, taking longer than necessary around the edges. He waits until I lower my hands before catching one.
“Thank you for being here.” He turns my fingers over in his palm. “I know today wasn’t easy.”
“I wanted to come.” I make him look at me before I go on. “That matters, too.”
“It does.” He moves his thumb over my bare knuckle.
I put the supplies down and kiss him. His hands return to my waist while I step closer, and I slide my fingers into his hair before he can ask whether I’m sure.
The chain catches briefly against his chest. He draws back enough to free it, then waits while I tuck it beneath my shirt.
“You’re being very careful.” I brush my nose against his.
“I’ve just had my injuries inspected.” He smiles before kissing the corner of my mouth. “I’d like to leave with the same number.”
I laugh and pull him back for another kiss. His mouth opens on mine right away. He’s holding back for the shoulder, and I can feel him doing it, so I break the kiss and push his good shoulder until he stays on the bench. He looks up at me, and I shake my head before he can stand.
“Sit.” I get his belt open while he watches my hands. “If you get up, you’ll pull that tape, and I spent ten minutes getting it straight.”
“Ramona, somebody’s going to knock.” His eyes flick toward the door, then come back to mine.
“Then they’ll knock.” I drag his zipper down and wrap my hand around him through the cotton. He’s already hard. I watch his face while I stroke him once, slow, and his fingers curl around the edge of the bench. “You can hold the wood. You can’t lift that arm.”
He looks at the door one more time, then at me, and lifts his hips to help me get his jeans down.
He does what I tell him. I like that more than I should.
I shove his jeans down far enough to get him out, then I go to my knees between his. The tack-room floor is cold through my jeans. I don’t care. I look up at him, keep looking, and take him into my mouth.
He swears under his breath. His good hand leaves the bench and finds my hair, not pushing, only holding on.
I take him deeper and pull off slow, spit-wet, and do it again.
His thigh jumps under my palm. When his hips try to lift, I pin them with my forearm and come off him with a wet sound that makes his mouth fall open.
“Don’t move.” I kiss the inside of his knee because it’s right there. “I didn’t say you could help.”
“Fuck.” He swallows. His eyes are dark and locked on mine. “You’re going to kill me on a bench.”
“Not if you listen.” I take him back into my mouth and work him until his breathing goes uneven, until I feel him get even harder against my tongue. Then I stop. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and stand up while he’s still trying to catch up.
I pop my own button. I shove my jeans and underwear down together and kick one boot free so I can get a leg out. He reaches for me with his good hand. I catch his wrist and put it on my hip instead.
“I want you sitting.” I put one knee on the bench beside his thigh, then the other, and lower myself until I feel him against me, hot and wet from my mouth. I don’t take him yet. I drag him through me once, twice, watching his jaw tighten. “I want to be the one who does this.”
His hand flexes on my hip. He doesn’t pull me down.
“Then do it.” His voice is rough. “I’m right here.”
I reach between us and line him up myself.
I sink down on him in one slow drop, all the way, until my thighs meet his and the chain is trapped between our chests.
I make a sound I’d be embarrassed by anywhere else.
He fills me so deep at this angle that I have to put my hand on the wall behind his head and wait.
“Christ, Ramona.” His forehead drops against mine. He doesn’t close his eyes. “Don’t move yet. Give me a second.”
I give him a second. Then I take it back.
I roll my hips and watch what it does to his face. I lift until I almost lose him, then sit down hard enough that the bench knocks the wall. His good hand slides under my shirt and up my back, dragging me closer, and I let him have that much. I don’t let him set the pace. I do.
“Eyes up.” I hold his jaw when his head starts to drop toward my throat. “You wanted me here. So watch.”
He watches. I ride him slow on purpose, then faster when his mouth opens on a sound he can’t swallow. Every time I come down, the ring knocks softly between us under my shirt. I brace on his good shoulder and keep my other hand off the scrape. He notices. His eyes go hotter for it.