“That is not a bad idea. Maybe we should wait and see how you feel after all the tests and scans, though.” Eric's soft smile does nothing to mask the concern still etched there. I think this whole thing has aged him a few years.
“Honey, there is no force on earth that could stop me devouring a frozen margarita right now. It’s seriously fucking hot today.” Not that I’m complaining. Eric in cargo shorts and a tight polo shirt is droolworthy.
“Lashes, you can’t mix alcohol with your meds. Margaritas will have to wait for a bit.”
Eric explains this like I haven't already thought about it. I don't care if there’s tequila. I’m happy to drink a virgin one. I just want a Mexican frozen drink. Naturally, instead of explaining this, I just roll my eyes at him and tut.
I suddenly notice something up ahead. My mom has already crossed the street and is waiting for us impatiently, but the sight of her tapping her foot on the sidewalk is not what has me halting in my steps. Pulling Eric back, I try to focus on what I’m seeing. There is a guy across the street. Walking quickly, jogging even. His hood is up, masking his face and he’s headed directly for us.
My heart rate starts to roar in my ears and I can barely make out what Eric is saying. My chest feels tight, like something is sitting on it. The noise of the traffic and the people around all blends into a constant ringing in my ears. I can feel Eric shaking my arm, see him snapping his fingers in front of my face, but all I can focus on is the man running toward me. I’m going to die. Jace got out and he has come to finish the job.I’m going to die. I’m going to die.My grip tightens on Eric’s hand as I screw my eyes closed and take a deep breath, preparing for the impact of the bullet. Except it doesn’t come.
Opening my eyes again, I stare between Eric and my mom, searching for the guy. I know I saw him. “Where is he?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Where is who, son? What’s wrong?” My mom’s eyes are wide with concern.
I hadn’t even realised how heavy I was breathing until now.
“Baby, we need to get you to the doctor. Can I pick you up?” Eric’s voice sounds pressured. Panicked.
I turn my head and see the urgency in his eyes.
How am I not dead?
“The man. You really didn’t see him? He was running right for us.” My eyes are darting around, but there’s no sign of my assailant. “Did I just hallucinate my death?”
Eric steps closer, wrapping his arms around me and holding me against his chest.“Lashes, a man just jogged past us and he had his hood up. The guy was on his morning run. You didn't hallucinate, but I do think you had a panic attack. Let's go see what Doctor Clark thinks. Can you walk?”
I nod weakly, still confused and rubbing at the residual ache in my chest. Mom and Eric move to either side of me as we head into the doctor's office. I suppose a panic attack isn’t that much of a stretch. It makes sense, and I for one am not going to bury my head and act like it didn’t happen. My mind needs help to heal just as much as my wound.
As expected, Eric was right. I had a panic attack. It could be a short-term coping mechanism and I will make a full recovery, or it could be a condition I will need to learn to live with for the foreseeable future. My doctor set me up with a psychologist that I’m going to meet with tomorrow, and he gave me some self-soothing exercises I can do any time I am feeling overwhelmed.
Eric has moved into my apartment to look after me, which I am thankful for, not least because it keeps my parents away for the most part. Otherwise, my mom would be following me around wherever I go, bathroomnotexcluded.
It’s funny how not so long ago, I thought that spending all my time with one person, morning to night, confined to the same apartment, was nightmare fuel. Now? Now I’m living my best life with a sexy and often shirtless man taking care of me. Eric makes sure I’m comfortable, checks that I'm warm enough every five minutes, and has reminders set on his phone for my meds. If I crave coffee, he’ll get me one, if I request a foot rub—no hesitation. He just fulfills my every request. Except one. Dick.
No matter how many times I remind him that I was shot in the shoulder and not in the dick, he will not budge on it. “No strenuous activity,” the doc had warned us at discharge and Eric took that to mean ‘no sex.’ Which, okay, fair enough, that could be classed as strenuous, but a handjob? A blowjob? Hell, I’d even take dry humping. My boyfriend, however, is firm on the whole, ‘I will not let you hurt yourself.’
No matter how much I try to tempt him… nothing. In the shower? He methodically washes my body from head to toe, refusing to open his mouth even when he's already on his knees. At night when we cuddle up together, he is so mindful of my shoulder—only prepared to sleep with the two of us on our sides. I have twerked my ass against him every night for a week, and nothing. I am going out of my mind and my balls have bypassed blue and gone straight to indigo. I need to come, or they will explode. Or maybe just shrivel up from lack of use. Either way, I need to up my game.
“Eric,” I call out to him from the designated spot where I have become a couch potato. Yes, that is as depressing as it sounds. No amount of Youtube videos or true crime documentaries can cure my boredom. I add a little panic to my tone, hoping to sound distressed enough to get his attention quickly. He’s been cleaning up the kitchen from breakfast, bless his soul. I would rather have a messy apartment and come on my chest than sparkling worktops.
I attempt to make quick work of my sweatpants, but I end up tangled up in a couch blanket, fumbling around until I kick them both off my legs and onto the floor. This is already not going to plan, but I can make it work. Wiggling my ass so I'm laying flat on the couch cushions, I keep my injured arm down by my side and reach out, wrapping my fingers around my hard cock. I have to bite back a moan at how good it feels to stroke it. It’s kind of awkward with my left hand, but beggars certainly can’t be choosers. Besides, I am hoping Eric is going to give me a little help.
“What’s up, Lashes? Everything okay?” Eric walks into the living room and leans against the doorway. Just the sound of his voice pulls another moan out of me. This is going to be over way too soon. Taking a firmer grip, I pump my shaft, gathering the drop of precum at my tip and waiting for him to walk further into the room so he can get an eyeful of my balls. I spread my legs a little wider just to give him the full effect.
“What are you doing?” he asks with a frustrated groan. I should probably be embarrassed that I have been practically harassing this man for a week now, but I have no shame and a very hard dick.
“What does it look like?” I slide my hand up and down my shaft, shivering from the knowledge that his eyes haven't strayed from my cock. It’s working. He's dicknotized. “I’m a horny, horny guy and I’m going to jack myself off. Mind grabbing me some tissues?”
His only response is a low growl. Not sure if it is from desire or exhaustion. He sounds sexy either way.
“Oooh, I like it when you growl. Come do that again on my nutsack.” I’m keeping my tone light, humorous. My hand is still gently working over my cock, shuttling faster now with all the precum I'm producing. “You have two choices, Dimples.” My breath picks up a notch, and I squeeze my base, holding off my orgasm a little longer, but throwing in a filthy moan just to cause a crack in his armor. “One—you can stand there and watch me fuck my fist, or two—you can come over here and suck my soul from my dick. The choice is yours, but make it quick. I don’t think this is going to last long.”
He smirks at me then, the fucker. “Fine.”
What does that even mean? ‘Fine’, as in, ‘I’ll come choke your chicken’, or ‘Fine, have at it, the dishwasher needs emptying.’ I continue to stare at him, hoping for some elaboration.
Eric shrugs and turns to walk away from me, only to stop and rest his back against the wall facing the couch. “Bring it on, Lashes. Show me what you got.”
