Page 30 of Just a Little Crush
“I do wish Rebecca had a husband, though. Someone to look after her properly.”And we’re back to square one.“You need to help her get back on her feet and find someone. Have you got any nice single friends at the station?”
Message received loud and clear. Everyone thinks Bec needs a husband. They just don’t think it should be me.
And they’re right. She deserves a good man. A safe, reliable man. Not some idiot who puts out fires for a living. Who wants to be far from gentle with her body. The thought of hurting her, or her worrying about me day and night is unbearable.
I picture her right now, there in my home. In my room. In my bed. I imagine her hair spread out on my pillow, infusing it with her scent. I think about the way she looked last night, nestled between my legs, coming apart under my touch. The way she moans, how soft and silky her skin is, how her body is everything I dreamed of and so much more. Knowing she’s still there in my bed is torture when I’m here in this dusty old waiting room that has barely changed since I was a boy.
There’s still an enormous fish tank in the corner, and one of those play tables where you push wooden shapes along the spiral and zigzag wires. I used to love that thing. Loved the feeling of taking the chaos someone had left behind and putting it back in order. That feeling of making it to the end, having all my beads lined up together in a neat row, nothing could beat it. That’s a core memory right there.
I take a seat while Mary goes in for her appointment and pass the time staring at the noticeboard covered in faded posters. Stop smoking classes. Free diabetes check. Pregnancy yoga. Physiotherapy.
That reminds me, I need to check Bec has had a referral for physio. We should start exercises in a few days to help her build her strength back up. And not the kind of exercise we got up to last night.
There can’t be any more of that. Jesus, what the hell was I thinking? Putting my hands on her the day after she nearly died. She’s a guest in my home, there to recover, not for me to take advantage of and unleash my selfish ass upon. But then what are these fantasies she says she has?
I can’t get my head straight. Can’t see through the blurred lines of the Bec I’ve known my whole life, the Bec of my darkest desires, and the Bec who was spread out on my bed last night, clawing at my thighs as she thrust against my hand and moaned my name. Can it really be that all those versions of her are one and the same?
It doesn’t matter anyway. She’ll be better in a couple of weeks and then she’ll go home, and that will be it. Helping Bec get what she needs is one thing. Letting myself loose on her precious, perfect body is not an option. Absolutely not. If I just keep telling myself this is all for her, then maybe I’ll get through this in one piece. Then I’ll have whatever the fuck this is out of my system, and Bec can move on with her life.
The house is quiet when I get home. Obviously, I’ve been hoping that she followed orders and she’s still in my bed, but Bec’s not one for being told what to do. I figured she’d be up watching TV, but there’s no sign of her in the living room. Clean dishes on the drying rack tell me she must have gotten up after breakfast, so we’ll have to have words about her not doing that again.
I walk down the hallway to the spare room, thrilled to find she’s not in there either. There’s only one place she could be and,fuck, this is too close to a fantasy I’ve had for years. One where I come home and find her waiting for me. I open the door to discover her kneeling on my bed wearing nothing but a blindfold and a smile. It’s my birthday, and she’s my gift.
Submissive and compliant, she’s utterly gorgeous with her hair hanging down her smooth, pale back. I spend a long time staring at her before I dare touch her, taking in the slope of her neck, circling the bed to stroke down the base of her spine to where it curves into that perfect peach. In my fantasy she doesn’t speak, so neither do I. Instead, I tell her everything I want to say with my hands, and my mouth, and my dick until we fill the silence with our moaning. My blood rushes south at the thought of it. This cannot be happening. She couldn’t possibly know this shit I imagine about her.
I push the door ajar slowly and what I find is... well, what I find is not exactly what I had in mind. Still, it’s so fucking cute I can’t complain.
Bec is asleep, spread out like a starfish in the middle of my bed. Her limbs, hair, and blankets are all over the place. She’s beautiful and chaotic and, judging by the drool pooling at the corner of her mouth, completely out of it. I spot her painkillers next to an empty glass on my nightstand with a pang in my chest.
She’s still in pain. Still in her own personal hell. She needs rest and recovery far more than she needs me leering over her like a creep. I bury my fantasy down deep, where it belongs and where it must stay.
It’s too early for me to try to sleep, but there’s nowhere I want to be more than right here. I strip to my boxers and leave my clothes on the floor, slipping under the covers in next to her. This is what I wanted last night, but I also wanted her to feel safe. Not like I was going to maul her all night, even if that’s all my dick wanted to do.
I lift her leg and roll her to her side to make space for me. I’m not used to sharing my bed. Having so much room to stretch out is probably the only perk of being single, but with her, I’d happily never sleep alone again.
“Hmm,” Bec mumbles, all sleepy and soft, but then her head jerks back and forth. “No,” she whimpers, stuck somewhere in her head that I can’t get to. “No needles. Help me. Help me.”
“Hey, shhh,” I whisper, “it’s OK. You’re OK.”
I curl my body around hers and scoot in a little further at the exact moment she scoots back. Her body is snug against my chest, her full, round ass pressed against my groin. I’m never getting to sleep like this.
When she snuggles in further, grinding a little, I’m not even sure she realises what she’s doing. I should not be taking advantage of her in this state.
I put a little distance between us and she whimpers, reaching back to pull my arm around her waist. My hand settles where her t-shirt has ridden up a little. “Better,” she moans.
I can’t help myself, I splay my fingers and hold my breath when my thumb ghosts the underside of her breast. That soft, pale, bare flesh I’m desperate to taste. I want to squeeze and suck and nip it between my teeth. I know it’s fucked up and possessive, but I want to leave bite marks. It’s this awful need to control and own her.
It blows my mind to have my hands on her. Years of want and need and agony and now she’s here in my bed it’s... I honestly don’t know.
My alarm goes off, and I’m alone, as usual. My blackout curtains are drawn, and with the door closed, it could be the middle of the night. It took a long time to get used to cramming sleep before a night shift. My body clock is off, my mind senses something’s not right, and panic fills my chest.
I rub my eyes and I’m back in that road, scrambling to pull branches from the wreck of her car. Rough bark slices into my hands, but I don’t care. The neanderthal storm whips up fast.
Bec was here.
Bec is missing.
Where is Bec?
