“Thank you for doing this,” I mumble, body already relaxing as his palms smooth up my back.
“It’s the least I can do. Maybe we need to get out a bit more now that you’re starting to feel better. We can go for short rides, get you used to being in a car again, work on taming that fear?” His thumbs sweep down the length of my spine.
“Yeah, maybe, but I need a few days to get my head around that. Just thinking about it makes my back feel tight.”
“I figure if we make a plan and we talk it out, you might be less anxious about it? We could get Dairy Queen drive-thru. Does a chocolate peanut butter milkshake and a greasy burger and fries sound good? We could go on the way home from your next physical therapy appointment. Or if you want to go sooner, we could do your exercises together and then make the trip. It’s only about a mile away, nice and short, with a great reward attached to it.” He gives my shoulders a squeeze, finds a tight spot, and focuses his attention there.
“I haven’t had a milkshake in forever.” I close my eyes, allowing myself to relax into his touch.
While my shoulders soften under his hands, other parts of me start to tighten. I find my mind wandering and my body reacting. It’s been happening more and more lately, especially when he’s giving me one of his massages or when we’re in the shower. Basically, every time he touches me for purposes other than bathroom trips. I try to push those thoughts out of my head. He’s my best friend and currently my primary caregiver. Imagining him massaging other parts of my body isn’t helpful.
The problem is, it’s been weeks since I’ve had an orgasm. Although I haven’t felt particularly sexy lately, the more I heal and the better I start to feel, the more my body reminds me that I have other needs. When I’m healthy and functional, and not hopped-up on pain meds, I’m typically the kind of person who self-satisfies at least three or more times a week.
I’m shocked out of my increasingly dirty thoughts by a knock at the door. “You expecting a delivery or something?” It’s approaching dinner, maybe Declan planned ahead and ordered in.
“Uh, nope, maybe your sisters decided to stop by?”
“Maybe?” Although they generally message in advance and ask for a list of things I might need, mostly stuff that I could ask Declan to get for me, but would prefer not to. I’ve taken to ordering groceries online and having them delivered so I can take something off Declan’s to-do list, which is a lot longer with me being dependent on him.
My sisters are supposed to come over tomorrow night so we can talk about the event they’re planning. This one is a bachelorette party for a very sporty bride, which would’ve been right up my alley. I’m doing what I can from home, researching the things they’ll need, ordering in items, but I don’t love that I can’t be there planning the event like I normally would.
Spark House has always been my baby. I knew even before I went to college that I wanted to take it over. I love planning events, seeing people come together and unify. It doesn’t matter what the event is, giving people a place to celebrate their accomplishments or life milestones makes me happy. And because my sisters and I are so close, I always assumed that Spark House was their dream as well. But without me there, I’m beginning to see that maybe that isn’t true.
I can sense London’s stress whenever I ask how everything is going with Spark House. Event planning isn’t either of my sisters’ strong suit—London loves creating centerpieces and other do-it-yourself crafts for the events, and Harley is great at setup and social media—but the actual planning isn’t easy on them. Mostly they tell me not to worry and that they have it handled, which I guess I have to trust.
Declan carefully slides out from behind me and grabs a couple of tissues so he can wipe the oil off his hands. He waits until I pull my shirt over my head before he crosses to the door and checks the peephole. His shoulders tighten and he shakes his head imperceptibly.
“Did one of those door-to-door guys make it in the building again?” It happens every once in a while.
“Uh, no.” He cringes, possibly because I’m loud, and opens the door with some reluctance. All it takes is the sound of a high-pitched nasally voice on the other side for me to understand why he’s talking to the person through a three-inch gap.
“Hey, Decky! I thought I’d stop by and see what you’re up to! I just got back from LA, and I figured you might wanna hang out!”