I can still taste him on my tongue, and he yelled at me toleave? A burst of anger washes over me, and I swallow hard. I taste him all over again as I do, and that sends a flood of emotions through me that I barely understand.
Why did I do it?When I’d woken up this morning, after two days of him burning up and writhing with fever again, two days of being sure he was going to die, his fever had broken. The bed had been drenched in sweat again, and I’d gotten up to get him fresh soup and water and bedding—the last of the soup. I’d been mentally preparing myself to have to ransack the house for some money lying around that I could use to buy more food, to go out into a strange city that I’ve never been in before and try to find my way around. And then I’d come back—to that.
I hadn’t expected him to be awake, let alone aroused. But I’d felt such pity for him when I’d realized how helpless he was that he couldn’t even touch himself. I’d remembered those nights, seeing him touching and denying, and I’d wondered how long it had been since he’d really had a release.
I’d realized, at that moment, that I had a sort of power over him. I could deny him like he’d been denying himself, or I could give him pleasure. I could let him have an orgasm.
I could explore him, under my own power, on my own terms. He wouldn’t be able to help me, or take over, or do anything. It wasmychoice.
I’d decided I wanted to. And I hadn’t regretted it until the moment he’d told me to get out.
I’m still not entirely sure that I do. It had been—fun. It had felt sweet and intimate in a way that I hadn’t imagined doing that with him could. I hadn’t imagined I could give a man such intense pleasure, especially the first time, but Alexandre had looked as if he were feeling things that I can’t begin to imagine.
A flush of desire washes through me, and my thighs squeeze together. Touching him, tasting him, had turned me on. I can feel how wet I am, a hollow ache spreading through me.I want to know what that feels like.I’d made myself come for the first time that night after I watched him, but even as good as that had felt, the expression on his face had suggested that what he was feeling was so much more.
I let out a frustrated sigh. I feel hurt and turned on and confused, and a little angry. I’d wanted to do something nice for him, but he’d shut me out afterward. After everything I’ve done for him, that feels especially cruel.
I can’t stay away forever. I still need to finish what I’d gone in there to do in the first place, but I can’t bring myself to go back right away. I wander into the kitchen, making something that passes as a meal for myself, until I think I’ve given it enough time.
When I walk back into the room, I can’t quite meet his eyes. “I need to change the sheets,” I tell him quietly, and the room is very silent for a long moment.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low and rough. “I shouldn’t have told you to leave.”
“I don’t—” I take a breath. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Alexandre stays silent as I remake the bed, doing his best to move and not make me lift and help him too much. He seems a little stronger than before, and my heart skips in my chest when I realize that means he really is getting better.
When his wrists are healed enough that he can take care of himself, I’ll be able to leave. I won’t take no for an answer—but that means leaving him.
That thought shouldn’t upset me. It shouldn’t give me a hollow, gnawing feeling in my gut, but it does.
I shouldn’t feel like I’dmisshim.
When the bed is fixed and Alexandre is propped up on his pillows again, I start to help him eat the broth I’d brought. I don’t meet his gaze as I spoon it to his lips, feeling my cheeks burning. Only an hour ago, I’d seen him completely naked and aroused. I’d touched him,suckedhim, and made him climax in my mouth. I feel shy and embarrassed now, in a way that I hadn’t felt around him before, even after he’d spanked me and come on my ass. I hadn’t been the willing party in that. I’d been angry and humiliated, but not likethis.
I’ve never felt anything like this before.
When he finishes eating, I set the bowl aside and change his bandages. “The cuts look better,” I say quietly. “And the one on your shoulder is healing a little better, too. There’s a long road ahead, but I think you’re going to make it.”
“Thanks to you.” Alexandre’s voice is very quiet. “Noelle—I am sorry. Truly—”
I shake my head, my throat tightening. “You don’t have to keep saying it.”
“Yes,” he insists. “I do. For everything. But especially after what you did for me, just now. You said you’ve never touched anyone else like that, and yet, for me—even after—”
“We don’t have to talk about it—”
“You deserve better, Noelle.” His fingers twitch as if he wants to lift his hands to touch me, and can’t.
The silence stretches out for several long moments. I hear him breathe in, his lips parting as if he wants to speak, but he hesitates.
“What?” I look up at him, finally, and see his blue eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes me shiver, another flare of heat going through me. It settles between my thighs, making me feel that ache, and I bite my lip.
“I shouldn’t—”
“Just say it.” I feel tired. Days of this is wearing on me. Even caring for my father when he was sick hadn’t taken so much out of me.
“Have you—” He hesitates. “Have you touched yourself like that? Have you ever—”