Page 75 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
“Okay. So… just tell me how you’re feeling,” he says with finality.
I let out a laugh. What a Dawghouse answer. Like it couldeverbe that easy. But for the sake of optimism, I nod.
“For now…” His hand trails up my thigh, over my ass to grab my waist, pulling me closer. “We have seven minutes. How would you—”
“I want you to take your shirt off, and then I want to put my hands all over your bare chest. Please. And feel, um—” I gesture toward his sides. “Whatever the muscles are high on the outsides of your ribs? Please,” I repeat, and silently pray that this burst of unfiltered honesty wasn’t a total mood-killer, because that was belligerent.
He kisses me hard. “Hayes,” he says against my lips, and I wonder if I can change my answer or at least amend it to include more of this, because this is bliss. “It would be my pleasure.”
27
I LOOK AT MY REFLECTION,the light catching gold thread in my navy bra and panties. In the light of the otherwise oppressive bulbs of my bathroom vanity, the set is as substantive as a heavy mist.Exactlywhat I was going for.
As if in response, my abdomen cramps brutally.
I sigh. I hate being right.
The pain flares started in earnest a few hours after Thursday’s interlude with Ian, at an intensity that suggested they were making up for the relatively gentle cycle I experienced last month. I didn’t even end up working out yesterday, though now I wonder if I should have given it a shot. I rallied for today’s endurance class, and the external, objectively optional discomfort of the workout was at least a distraction from the pain that I had zero influence over, so… silver lining?
I uncap the ibuprofen on the edge of the sink, dry-swallowing two of the pills, then bend over to drink straight from the tap. Straightening, I give myself a few moments to admire the new lingerie. The package had been waiting on the doorstep when Igot home from Firehouse. I figured I could at least find out if it looks good before putting it away until it can be of use.
I turn to the side and smirk. It does lookgood. And it sure as hell is going to be put to good use.
Eventually.
Outside of a few stolen moments between classes, Ian and I haven’t had much time to enjoy one another. Seth, the evening coach, called out sick Thursday afternoon, leaving Ian to cover the p.m. classes, and a personal training client rescheduled his session to coincide with what should have been yesterday’s nap time. Between our respective shifts at the gym and last-minute, time-sensitive responsibilities—a client in Tempe, Arizona, had to fill in for a summer school session and suddenly needed revised rubrics before the weekend—evenings haven’t worked out. And while we are independent adults with our own personal living quarters, I haven’t mustered the courage to propose a sleepover. Because I am a coward.
And now that the cramps have started—
Pain grips my abdomen, barbed wire snagging on something deep in my pelvis, and my grip on the sink goes white knuckle. I count my breaths, the searing pain lasting one… two… three cycles, fading to a dull ache by the fourth breath. When I catch my reflection this time, the sudden beading of sweat out-glistens the sparkly bra.
One more jagged inhale, and the ache is more manageable but still not something I can ignore. I wipe at the sweat on my brow, tears of frustration and pain welling in my eyes. It isn’t fair! I have someone I actually want to be physical with, even if I’m secretly terrified of the prospect. And dammit, my boobs look great in this bra!
It’s with a chest full of self-pity that I wail, “What a fucking waste!”
“Ellie?” Ian’s voice is sharp, and the floor vibrates with rapid footsteps.
Shit!I turn and scramble for my robe on the back of the door. Before I can grab it, the half-open door swings open. I jump back, barely avoiding getting hit.
Ian halts in the doorway. “Oh, sorry! Are you okay? The door was open, and I heard…” His eyebrows go high as he realizes what I’m—or amnot—wearing. “This a bad time?”
I shake my head, going for casual, but disappointment weighs on my chest. This is about to get really awkward. “No! I’m okay. Sorry. I was going to get my robe.”
“Why would you be sorry?” he asks, taking a slow perusal of my scantily clad form. A libidinous smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, and I’m keenly aware of the negligible opacity of my bra and panties. The heat in his expression is a lure and a warning, my responding desire forcing me still, wanting him to look, while the prey animal in me freezes at the threat of danger. Not ofhim, not rationally, but of what so often accompanies a scenario like this. Pain. Rejection—
“You look amazing,” he says, his voice thick.
I smile at the compliment. But reality brings me back to earth quickly. “I’m…” My brain provides the euphemism Cole used to use. “Out of commission.”
Ian frowns, and I imagine he’s parsing through my phrasing. After a second, his eyes go wide, and his gaze drops to my abdomen. Instead of changing the subject or, Cole’s go-to, leaving the room entirely, he steps into the bathroom with me, closing thedistance between us. My protest builds in my throat, but before I can voice it, he makes a sympathetic sound, placing one of his broad hands below my belly button. My relief is immediate; the man is a human heating pad.
“I’m sorry.” He kisses my forehead. “You need anything?”
The consideration is a balm. No hesitation, no discomfort, just sweetness. “No. But thank you. I can…” I point toward the door and my robe, fumbling for words again. “I can cover up.”
He frowns, pulling his hand away. “Why? Oh! Are you cold?”
Cold?In June? InTexas? But I take a cursory look down my front and have to concede; physical evidence would suggest a chill.
