Page 84 of For a Goode Time Call…
I’d learned from Mom that he’d taken a leave of absence from his tattoo shop and was living at his remote hunting cabin somewhere outside Anchorage. To give me space, she said.
Somehow, that made me miss him all the more—it made me care more. Because I did need the space. I needed him out of my life so I could focus on me. If he was here, I wouldn’t be able to do that. I’d want him.
Need him.
Think about him.
Be with him.
Learn him.
Damn him…he’d been right. I’d been using him as a distraction from the work I needed to do on myself.
And then, to give me space, he’d left his home, his job, his family, his friends, and me—for whatever it was I meant to him—so I could do what was needed to be who I needed to be.
I was grateful to him, for that.
But holyshit, I did miss him.
I let myself think about him—really truly openly deeply think about him—but only once a day. At night, in bed before I went to sleep I’d bring up an image of him, hear his voice, feel his voice. See his eyes. Feel his hands on my skin. His kiss.
I’d let myself remember his mouth between my legs. His hardness inside me. His kisses drowning me, drugging me.
I’d remember him, all of him, allow myself to want him, let myself need him.
I’d touch myself thinking about him, bring myself to orgasm and wish it were him doing it.
And then I’d fall asleep, wishing his arms were around me.
When I woke up, I’d put aside all thoughts and memories of Ink, and focus on my day. Coffee. Stretching. Testing movement, feeling myself for aches, pain, tweaks, twinges. Walk over to Bax’s gym. Work out until I was totally sapped—conditioning, strength, toning, muscle building, flexibility as well as working on rejuvenating my bad leg.
The two weeks became three, and I was able to walk without limping, and could run a mile, almost two before the deep throbbing ache in the muscle and bone started again.
But the more time passed, the more I missed Ink.
And the more I realized how much he’d come to mean to me in a bizarrely short time.
I’d fallen for him.
I’d caught feelings, and I was okay with that.
But now…now I wanted more than just feelings. And I was beginning to understand what he’d told me about not falling in love, that it wasn’t an accident, or something beyond control, a black-and-white you-are-or-you-aren’t thing.
It was an organic, living thing. Yougrewlove.
I had the feelings, the connection, and the attraction.
But I wanted more.
It was going to take work, and it would be a risk. I could hurt him, he could hurt me. We would fight.There’d be times we wouldn’t feel love.
But I wanted the process. I wanted the work.
And I wanted it with him.
So, four weeks and three days after meeting Baxter, I sat across from him in his office. “I’m taking some time off my rehab.”
He set his pen down, flipped the folder of his financial reports closed, and propped his feet on the desk. “Oh?”
