We both freeze.
“Ignore it,” I say, already pulling a condom from the box.
It stops. Starts again immediately.
“That’s—” Marnie sits up, alert cutting through the post-orgasm haze. “That’s my emergency ring. I have to?—”
She’s already scrambling off the bed, looking for her phone.
I sit there, condom in hand, every muscle in my body screaming at me to stop her. To finish this. To finally get the relief I’ve been desperately needing for four days.
But the fear in her voice—the sudden panic—that overrides everything else.
She finds her phone in the pile of clothes by the door. “Hello?”
I watch her face change. Pleasure to concern to fear in seconds.
“Teresa? What happened?” She’s already looking for her clothes, trying to dress one-handed. “Is she breathing? Okay—okay, that’s good. We’re coming. Twenty minutes. Just keep her calm.”
She hangs up and I’m already grabbing my clothes from where I tossed them.
“What happened?” I scrub my hand over my face, trying to process this shift but my body hasn’t caught up.
“Mom had a fall. Teresa’s scared—she never sounds scared.” Her hands are shaking as she tries to button her jeans. “She said mom’s confused, blood pressure’s up, she doesn’t know if she should call an ambulance.”
“We’ll figure it out when we get there.” I find my shoes, shove my feet in. “Come on.”
We’re dressed and out the door in under two minutes.
Down the elevator in silence. Into my truck.
I’m still hard and aching, body furious at being denied after all that buildup. I feel like an asshole for it.
But Marnie’s beside me, leg bouncing with nervous energy, fear written all over her face.
And that matters more than anything I’m feeling.
“She said mom tried to get out of bed and fell,” Marnie says quietly. “That she’s asking for my dad. That everything’s confused.”
I reach over, take her hand, squeeze it.
“We’re almost there.”
The rest of the drive is silent except for the GPS giving directions.
I’m still half-hard, still aching, body not understanding why we stopped when we were so close to finishing.
Every shift of the truck, every turn, reminds me exactly what I’m not getting right now.
But Marnie’s hand is trembling in mine.
And that matters more than anything my body wants.
21
MARNIE
It’s beenthree days since I moved Mom to the hospice facility, and I still can’t walk through the front doors without my stomach dropping.
