Heal All Wounds || Chapter 6. Wrennie in Recovery

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It’s actually very nice to be tucked in bed all day. Especially if it’s such a luxurious big bed, and you manage to ignore the intimidating Kandinsky above your head.  And of course very much due to the fact that you also get to be waited on by a gorgeous man.

It’s not bloody nice though, because whatever you said in the hospital you want that man in the bed with you. And he resists.

Literally. He presses his hands into the edge of the bed, and you can’t pull him into it. He’s so bloody heavy!

“Wren…” Your lips are too busy to answer. God, his neck is delicious! “We can’t…”

“But I’m feeling fine…” Your words are muffled; you add some teeth. You know what he likes. He jumps away.

“The kettle is probably ready. I’ll make you tea.” He clears his throat. And has to adjust his crotch. Let’s face it, you do know what he likes.

You fall back into the sheets with an ‘oomph.’ It’s been four days, and you’re bored. And randy, you are so fucking randy. The bed smells like him, Hermes Epic Marine, and something specifically John, and you nuzzle a pillow. In a mo you realize you are rubbing your whole body to the sheets like a feline. OK, that needs to be addressed.

You jump out of the bed and quickly walk into the kitchen. He’s decorously stirring tea in a mug for you.

“I need an orgasm.” His jaw drops. Again, literally. His mouth opens slightly, his eyes widen.

You’re standing in front of him, his tee on you reaching mid-thigh.

“I get it, John, doctor’s orders and such, but I’m so randy that I literally almost just came from humping your blanket.”

He can’t contain a smile, and you feel miffed.

“It’s not funny, John! I get it, we can’t stick anything in it, but you have to help me here. One orgasm, and I will leave you alone.” He guffaws.

“You’re saying it as if I am resisting.”

“You are! You slept on the sofa today!”

“You were molesting me in my sleep!”

“You can’t blame me! I was asleep myself! It’s instinctual! And besides…”

He doesn’t let you finish. He presses his mouth to yours and picks you up under your arms. Then he puts you on the window sill and spreads your legs. Your head drops back, and you painfully hit the back of it into the Venetian blinds. Who fucking cares! He drops on his knees in front of you, and you exhale.

“Finally, for fucking fuck sake!” He chuckles, and you grab the thick hair at the back of his head. You might be pushing him towards yourself a little bit.

“Well, aren’t we impatient…” You shiver from the pure indecency of his voice.

Your knickers theatrically fly across the kitchen, and you moan. The cool air hits your heated fanny, but is quickly replaced by soft warm lips. You cry out.

“You’re always such a screamer.” He’s chuckling, and then the tip of his tongue slides across your sex.

“Fuck!” You jump up. He presses a palm to your thigh.

“Sit still…”

He lowers his mouth on you, and his movements are slow and gentle. You really don’t need much today. You’re sloping down, he has to support your waist, his large hot palms under your ribs.

He licks the clit once, and you come, shaking and moaning. Then he lets you go, and you slide down. He actually has to catch you, and you end up on the floor together. He’s laughing.

“Oh, shut up…” you mewl weakly and smack his chest.

You two are sprawled on the floor, he wraps his arms around you, and you are curling up into his side, nuzzling his neck.

“Wren, you can’t sleep on the floor.”

“You’re very comfortable…”

Your eyes are closing, and the last thing you hear is the low rumble of a chuckle in his chest. Oh, the chest, you bloody love the chest…

***

You wake up in the bed, and it smells like Italian. Your mouth waters. Then an absolutely indecent image of licking red sauce of the corner of his lips leaps into your brain. You have to be honest, you were rather embarrassed for exactly this behaviour of yours couple weeks ago, but then, in that posh Italian restaurant you just couldn’t help it. Judging by how he grabbed the back of your head then and snogged you senseless, he didn’t disapprove.

You trot to the kitchen. He is sitting at the table reading a cookbook. In his glasses. Bugger. He lifts his eyes, and then one black brow starts sliding up. Tosser, he knows precisely what he’s doing to you. Time to reciprocate. You’ve got a thing for his glasses – let’s be honest you’ve got a thing for his everything – and these bloody specs especially, but he’s not made of stone either. He would probably be very embarrassed if he knew that you knew, but he can never resist your biting. And not necessarily into him.

You pick up a slice of cucumber from the salad bowl and sink your teeth in it with gusto and a loud crunch. He freezes. You finish the slice and pick up another one.

“Smells really nice. What is it?” Your tone is perfectly nonchalant. He’s silent, eyes dark, fixed on your mouth. You let him enjoy the show of the green ring in front of your mouth for a second, and then you bite into it.

He jumps on his feet, and the chair actually falls on the floor with the bang behind him. You can see cogs frantically turning in his head. He has two ways to go: towards the washroom where he can stick his head under cold water. Probably won’t help, he has been sleeping near you for three nights and didn’t get any. He could take a shower and attend to his needs. Or he can make a large step towards you and ravish you. He frowns and clenches his teeth. You are slightly pleased to see that the shower option is winning in his head. But you might also be a bit disappointed at his relentless self-control.

You take pity and stretch your hand towards him.

“How about we go to bed and help you with your tension?” He opens his mouth, but you interrupt him, “But without risking my health obviously.”

You think you might have been just teleported into the bedroom.

***

It takes three rounds to release his tension, and you feel very nice and tired now.

“So, John, what was it in the oven?”

He curses, under his breath obviously – always a gentleman – tumbles off the bed, and runs in the kitchen. The view of his naked backside disappearing around the corner might just be your favourite memory of recent. Although no, that time on the bathroom floor just before you thought you got pregnant…

You hear him cursing in the kitchen. Here goes your lunch.

He yells from the kitchen, “Take away?”

You guess he didn’t put the timer on. You giggle.

“Sure, but I still want Italian.”

You throw his robe on and walk to the kitchen, the window is open, and he’s waving a tea towel in the air. The smoke is almost gone, but the smell of burnt tomato paste is pungent.

You giggle again – he seriously shouldn’t be doing it in the buff. All the swaying!

He pounces on you, and you squeal.

“Don’t laugh at me!”

“I can’t help it!” You can’t breathe, squirming to escape his fingers roaming your ribs. “You were waving so thoroughly….”

You’re roaring with laughter, and unsurprisingly get teleported to the bedroom again.

***

You are finishing your dinner in bed, since it still smells kind of grotty in the kitchen. Or maybe you two just like it here. He’s nibbling on your shoulder, when his landline rings. You didn’t even know he had one.

He exchanges a few phrases with whoever is calling, and you understand that it is the concierge. He hangs up and looks at you.

“You should probably throw something on. My sister is coming up with an unexpected visit.”

Katya Kolmakov
Katya Kolmakov. Mother. Writer. Artist. Fanfiction and Wattpad. First novel on Amazon http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00XJ16W7W.

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