Even doing an online class, my brain fog was next level. I kept forgetting facts I’d known since I was an undergrad. Any sort of stress put me at risk for a seizure or for my limbs to give out on me, and the reality was that I was not in a place where I could be any good for the students.
So where did that leave me? What choices did I have?
Sponge off Nash and Creek and ask them to pay out of pocket for all my treatments while I figured something else out? Or take Nash up on this offer, which would still leave me needing some help, but at least no one would go bankrupt from medication, physical therapy, and scans.
I hated this with every fiber of my being. I was stressed and tired, but I couldn’t sleep. I was weirdly horny from my dinner with Nash, but as I lay there, it was obvious my hands had no plans to cooperate. The dinner had taken everything out of me, and now, when I attempted to curl a fist around myself, my fingers began to spasm and my arms began to shake.
I was hard and angry about it.
This wasn’t fucking fair.
Letting out a frustrated breath, I swung my legs over the bed. It took them several moments to cooperate enough for me to stand, and my knees wobbled like Jell-O while my toes would barely lift off the floor as I made my way toward the hallway.
I needed water or tea or…heck, a fifth of whiskey, maybe. I was under current orders to avoid drinking, but at this point, what did I care? I didn’t want this disorder to steal everything from me, but it felt like it was.
Bit by bit, all my joys were being stripped away. Bit by bit, I was losing access to everything that made me, well…me.
My throat felt tight, and I breathed through it, pressing my forehead to the doorjamb. As I stood there, the visions of a nonfuture began to fade, and Nash replaced them. Nash, sleep-soft in the mornings with his short hair smashed in weird patterns from his pillow. His eyes were often heavy-lidded—from insomnia and nightmares, I suspected—but he never, ever failed to have a smile for me. Not once.
Would his hands be warm if he ever reached for me, if he ever pulled me close and breathed into the crook of my neck before turning his head up to kiss me? Would they be powerful and strong, holding me upright when my legs failed so he could grip my cock and stroke in ways I couldn’t anymore?
Would he whisper in my ear? Make my knees quake with pleasure as he murmured all the filthy, feral things he wanted to do to me? Or would he be sweet, making my toes curl and my stomach swoop?
Knowing him, it would be everything. Filthy-sweet nothings in whispers ghosting across my skin. And his lips would be so soft, his teeth sharp, hands clever, fingers so talented they’d have me coming before he was ever inside me.
My dick kicked against my pajama pants, a wet spot growing. I reached down and gave myself a single rub with the heel ofa shaking hand when suddenly there was a shadow a few feet away.
I let out a sharp cry, attempting to move backward, but my uncooperative legs tangled together, and I went down. My eyes shut and I braced myself for the crash, but instead I met a firm grip—slightly painful still, but not nearly as bad as it would have been if I’d hit the floor.
“Shit.” Nash’s voice was a thick rumble. “Forest, oh my god. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
I was so in my head that I almost missed that.Sweetheart. My tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth.
“Forest,” Nash said again. “You okay?”
I took a breath as he pulled me tight against his body to lift me up. “Yeah. I, uh…” And then I noticed that I still had a raging erection and now it was pressed against him, notched against his thigh.
Oh god, kill me now. Please.
Nash swallowed thickly and glanced down before his eyes darted up toward the ceiling. “Um…”
“Ignore that, please,” I begged.
He took a single step back, giving enough space between us for Jesus—as my youth group leader used to say during our yearly socials.
He bit his lip, and I hated it because he somehow looked even hotter when he was embarrassed. After a long beat, I realized he was still holding me. And I realized that if he let go, I’d fall again.
This. Was. Mortifying.
“Can you, ah…help me to my bed? My legs don’t seem to want to work right.”
Nash nodded, then glanced down at my chest and arms where I was clinging to him. My grip was weak and my hands were shaking even worse now. “Is that where you were heading?”
“No,” I admitted as he all but lifted me into his arms and walked me back toward the bed. “I was going to get some water.” Or booze. “I was having a, ah…a bad night.”
He sat me on the edge, and my body sagged in relief. My hands were still kind of wiggly, but I kept them tucked in my lap, though the uncontrollable friction on my cock wasn’t helping matters. Especially since Nash was shirtless.
“What can I do?”
