With a groan of approval, he kisses my neck again and then shifts one hand from my hip to the bed to prop himself up. But he suddenly pauses with a sharp grunt and drops his forehead to my chest, his shoulders tight. “Goddammit,” he hisses.
My hand stops on his back, my arousal immediately melting away into concern. I lift my other hand from the bed to his shoulder, but as soon as I touch him, he flinches, hissing again in pain. I pull my hand away.
“Shit, sorry,” I say, worry twisting my gut. I don’t know what to do, so I stay as still as I can and lower my voice. “Wh-what... I-I mean, um, are you okay? Please tell me you’re okay.”
He shakes his head, although I’m not sure exactly what he means. He seems to try to move again, to push himself sideways off of me, maybe, but he immediately freezes, sucking in a breath through clenched teeth.
“Can I help? What hurts?” When he doesn’t say anything, I bend forward to kiss the top of his head. “Here, lower back down onto me. Is it your shoulder?”
This time, he nods, and then he does as I suggested, taking the weight slowly off his arm and allowing himself to settle back on top of me. “S-sorry,” he says quietly. “I wanted... to make you feel good. I didn’t think...”
“It’s okay,” I reassure him. I wrap both my arms around him—very carefully—and kiss the top of his head again. “Are you okay now? It doesn’t hurt anymore?”
“Yeah. Kinda.”
I close my eyes and just hold him there for a moment, letting my heart slow back down from the double rush—first from arousal and then from worry. “Your left shoulder?”
He nodsagain.
“Alright.” I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing, but I keep holding him on top of me as I start shimmying over toward the wall, figuring that maybe I can shift him onto his right side next to me if I make space on the bed. Or something like that.
“Alex, what the hell are you—”
“Shh. Just... trust me,” I cut in. When I’m far enough over, I tighten my hold on him slightly—mindful of the bruises on his back, too—and I pause. “Tell me if I need to stop.”
He swallows hard, but then keeps his head buried against my chest as I turn us and lower him to the bed on his right side. I slip my arm out from under him, keeping my other hand securely on his lower back.
His breathing is still strained, and I lean in and kiss his forehead as I give him a moment. Then, softly, I ask, “Better?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Well, yes. But . . . but also no.”
His tone sounds almost pouty, and when I pull back to look at him, he’s frowning, staring unfocused at my chest. His dark hair falls across his forehead, messy and also begging for me to brush it out of the way. So I do, letting my fingers comb back through his soft, loose curls. He closes his eyes.
“That feels good, though.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He pauses, then tenses a little as he shifts over slowly, grimacing, until he’s lying flat on his back, his left arm resting at his side. He brings his right forearm up to cover his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, all the teasing and happiness gone from his voice.
I don’t have to ask him what he thinks he needs to apologize for. But I hate that he thinks it’s his fault at all that we were interrupted.
I scoot as close to him as I can, settling my hand on his stomach, and I lightly kiss his shoulder. It’s his good shoulder, but I’mstill glad when he doesn’t flinch or move away. “Can I get you Tylenol?”
He hesitates, then lowers his arm and turns to look at me. His eyes are beautiful in the soft light of early morning, though there’s something in them that worries me, and I’m not sure why. I smile gently, bring my hand up to touch his cheek, and then lean over and kiss him—a slow, deep kiss that I hope shows him how much I care.
When we part, he takes a breath and then nods. “I’ll take the Tylenol.”
He doesn’t say anything more, so I steal another kiss—a shorter one this time—and carefully crawl over him off the bed to head downstairs. It’s early enough that my mom’s not up yet, and so, less than a minute later, I’m back with two tablets of extra-strength Tylenol and a glass of water.
With a grimace, he sits up, and I hand him the glass and then the pills, which he pops into his mouth. He takes a long sip or water, swallows, and places the glass on the nightstand.
“Thanks,” he says. He glances up at me and tries for a smile, but it’s strained and brief. Tentatively, maybe as though he’s trying to convince himself it’s okay, he reaches out and brushes his fingers up my forearm to my elbow in invitation. “Come back to bed? I... um, I think I’ll be okay if we’re just careful.”
I hesitate. The last thing I want to do is hurt him, of course. But when he lets his fingers continue up higher on my arm and then flattens his palm along my bicep, there’s a renewed rush of heat and arousal to my groin.
