Page 30 of Catch of a Lifetime
“As in, he probably doesn’t want to be careful. Can’t say as I spend much time thinking about the pair of you having a romp, but if I had to guess, I’d say he likes to toss you about a fair bit.”
My cheeks heated.
He gave me a knowing look. “‘Course, it’s probably more simple than that. Prob’ly, he just feels like shit.”
Jerry had a valid point. Dave wanted me there with him, I was confident enough about that. He’d demanded it. There had been lots of gentle touches, both given and received. Whenever I put my hands on him, he reached back. There had been soul-gazing. A lot of it. An uncomfortable amount, to be honest. Sometimes, I’d woken with a tingling sensation all over me that made me suspect he’d been watching me sleep.
I had to be patient, that was all.
Things would get back to normal any day now. If I could make all those grand, romantic statements about how long I’d wait for him to return to me, I could wait to be reunited with his dick.
Which happened sooner than I thought, and went worse than I’d feared.
I was giving him another of those bed baths he loved, and things got a bit…lingering.
I had it down to a fine art by then. I’d ordered some extra-large, extra-absorbent bath towels from John Lewis, along with a lightweight tarp to go underneath. I’d also bought a few new shower puffs that he couldn’t get enough of, and the mildest of baby soaps.
We’d learned that Dave couldn’t tolerate Nivea’s finest body wash for men the hard way.
By ‘the hard way’, I mean he’d scratched himself all night long until I’d threatened to duct tape my ski gloves on him, then went and got some soothing ice cubes to run over his hives.
Having spent this long away from the sea, all of his skin was irritated now. I moved him from one side to the other, wiping him down and tutting at the way he was visibly drying out. He wasn’t quite at the flaking stage yet. It wouldn’t be long.
“Dave,” I sighed. “What am I going to do with you?”
I didn’t even need to dry him with a towel anymore; his skin sucked up the droplets.
I eased the towels I’d tucked under him to protect the bedding and, as I’d suspected they would be, they were bone dry. He’d sucked the moisture out of those, too. Like a giant sponge.
I tossed the towels into the laundry basket by the bed. Resting a hand on his flat stomach, I rubbed gently. It made a dry, whispery sound.
“Time for your moisturiser!” I told him, and tried not to sound too overeager. There was no way to make it not sound creepy.
He couldn’t tolerate Nivea’s moisturiser for men any better than he’d tolerated the body wash. He couldn’t tolerate any of the four other brands I tried, either, even the baby ones.
I gave in and called Jerry for help again. He skipped off to the pharmacy in town, lied to the pharmacist’s face about some problems he was having, and came back with an enormous pump bottle of lotion which the pharmacist swore was safe for moisturising sensitive skin absolutely anywhere Jerry needed to be moisturised.
Anywhere.
We tried it on a small patch of skin on his inner arm first and when Dave didn’t break out into hives, I went to town with it.
And, yes. Maybe I had looked up a couple of how-to massage videos on YouTube.
All right, I didn’t find them on YouTube. Dave wasn’t complaining.
I straddled him happily, squirted a couple of pumps of lotion into my palm, and got on with the horrible task of anointing my beautiful lover.
He lay quiescent beneath me, watching through slitted eyes as I moved from his shoulders and arms down to smooth it over his long, cobbled torso. I steered clear of his wounds, which hadall now entirely closed and scabbed, and kept the pressure light as I skated my hands over the bruises. They hadn’t improved as much. I suspected that, as bad as he looked on the outside, his internal injuries had been worse.
The room was quiet apart from our breathing, the ticking of my bedside clock, and the occasional wet sound as I liberally applied the moisturiser.
I finished with his chest and abs and moved down to his hips and around his waist. I tucked my fingers beneath him and squeezed a little, feeling the give of his flesh where his muscled back became the first swell of his arse.
I shuffled down a few inches.
The room was less quiet now.
I wasn’t the only one breathing heavily.
