Page 78 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
I turn around and face him, resting my hands on his chest. His eyes drift over me. The cup of my bra has partly lifted back overmy breast, but the strap is still off my shoulder. Watching him, I push the other strap down. I reach behind my back, unfasten the hook and eye, then drop my arms, letting the gauzy garment fall to the floor.
Returning to Ian, I take hold of the hem of his shirt. He catches on quickly, tugging off the tee in that uniquely male way, hauling the back up and over his head. The shirt joins my bra on the floor, and his arms wrap around me automatically.
I’m exquisitely aware of my body’s reaction to being skin-to-skin with him, the lingering sensitivity of my orgasm in every pleasure receptor, and the general, full-body comfort I feel with him. When I hug him back, he lets out a quiet sigh. My heart squeezes. I could stay like this forever.
It’s that last thought that has me letting go. Because this isn’t going to be forever. It’s only a reprieve. I have a handful of months of this. Hell, if I have another nerve attack before November, I might not even have that time. I’ll be learning to cope, and there is zero chance I’ll be tainting this dream with that nightmare.
“What’s up?” Ian asks, bringing me back from my unwelcome thoughts.
All we have is now. Better not waste it.
I move his hands to hook his thumbs into my waistband. “Help a gal out?” I ask and kiss his chest. “We need to shower.”
28
WE LOUNGE IN BED,clean and sated and languid with pleasure. I’m reclining against the headboard in my robe, and shorts-clad Ian, who, evidently, has zero qualms with raiding his brother’s clean laundry, lies on his back between my legs in a pair of basketball shorts. His head’s against my lower abdomen, the weight and heat of him combatting my pain.
I rake my nails through his hair, and he shivers, squirming against me pleasantly.
He squeezes my calves. “You’ve completely changed my opinion of those claws of yours,” he says. “I had no idea they could be sofun.”
I harumph, stilling my hand. “Decorative doesn’t exclude functionality.” He chuckles at this, and I feel the vibration of it against my inner thighs. Delightful.
He reaches back for my hand, moving it over his scalp. I smile and resume scratching.
We sit in silence for a few moments, me, enjoying the feel of his thick hair between my fingers, and him interrupting the quiet with the occasional grunt of pleasure. It’s so…calm. I’m stillaware of the unpleasantness in my abdomen, but I’m not as anxious about the days ahead as I had been. There’s a story structure activity I still need to find resources for, and the gym’s newsletter could use a final going-over before I send it off… and tell Ian that Firehouse now has a newsletter. I also need to confirm a time to do a run-through with Diego on his next livestream for Built Box. He floated a gimmick to them based on an idea from Mark, which could get…improv-y.
But I don’t feel the need to get to work on any of these. I am at peace. Content. Lazy, even, beyond the sedative influence of post-release bliss. I feel physically lighter, the stunning slab of man currently employing me as a chaise notwithstanding. I have beenrelieved.
A swell of gratitude rises in my chest. I lean over to kiss Ian on the forehead. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He beams up at me. “Are you thanking me for anything specific?”
I’m not sure where to begin, but I settle on “Earlier.”
He waggles his brows. “For introducing you to the taste of colors?”
I laugh, lying back. “Well, that, sure.” He rolls over, still cradled between my legs, and rests his chin on my stomach. “But for backing off when you did. I couldn’t even identify that I needed it. And I don’t know that I’d have asked you to ease off if I had.” I frown. “So dumb. You’reyou; it’s not like you’d get shitty once I told you I wasn’t up for sex.”
“I’m glad you know that,” he says, his eyes firmly on mine. “I don’t want you to feel like you can’t tell me stuff like that. Or… anything,” he adds.
A guilty pang goes off in my chest, so sharp and thorny that I’m tempted to lay it all out for him: my eye, the MS, the creeping dread that keeps me up nights after a day I haven’t run myself ragged. The hopelessness I feel knowing that this life I’ve found is temporary…
“Ellie?” he asks.
I shake my head.Coward.“Cramp.”
He makes a sympathetic noise and sits up, repositioning himself so he’s draped over my left thigh, propped on his elbow. He reaches into my robe and rubs his free hand over my belly. It does soothe the cramping, but my guilt skyrockets.
“Having a hard time asking for something,” he says. “I get that. I can’t ask for helpever.”
I smirk. “You don’t say.”
His small smile is self-deprecating. “I’m just sorry you don’t feel comfortable asking for what you need.”
“It’s not you—”
“I know. You…” He frowns. “You mentioned that Cole was weird about that.”
