July 18th
Greg sips his iced tea and tries to focus on the game. It's good to be home; the relief of freedom from the hospital and a return to familiar surroundings hasn't worn off yet even after two days. Though it's raining and muggy as a consequence, he prefers humid fresh air to the cold, stale recycled stuff he breathed for several days. Truth be told, he's as comfortable as it's possible to be given the circumstances; ensconced on the couch in the living room, with books, journals, tv remote and PlayStation controls at hand, as well as his iPod, pain meds and a little cooler packed with sandwiches, cookies and more to drink. There's a chamber pot tucked under the coffee table, and the cat keeps him company now and then. He's spoiled rotten, he fully admits it. This is the utter lap of luxury . . . and he is bored, bored, bored. It doesn't even help that his team's found a new case—they've held a ddx session via Skype and while it got things started, it did nothing for his ability to pull details together. He has to be there to watch the reactions of his fellows, gather clues from the way they offer information . . .
With a sigh he pulls his attention back to the Phillies and the mess they've made of the seventh inning, just as the kitchen door opens. The jingle of keys and consequent thump of a toolbox being stowed by the door tells him it's Roz even before she comes into the living room. A few seconds later she shows up, still in her jumpsuit of course. She looks hot and tired, but she smiles and bends down to give him a kiss. It's the best thing that's happened to him all day so far.
"Home early," he says eventually.
"I thought you'd like some company," she says, and perches one cheek on top of the couch. "Looks like Sarah's been here and brought you some goodies."
"Gene dropped them off this morning along with some kickass painkillers." He stretches a little and winces as his leg gives him a mild warning twinge.
"When are your meds due?"
"I can keep track of them myself," he snaps. For answer Roz kisses his bald spot.
"I know you can, Doctor Crankypants," she says with far too much cheerfulness.
"Takes one to know one. You smell like someone's attic."
"Well, that makes sense, because I was in someone's attic for most of the morning." She strokes his cheek and gets to her feet. "Give me ten minutes to get cleaned up and I'll come watch the game with you, okay?"
"Whatever," he grumbles, but he watches her head off to the bedroom. Under the worn blue cotton it's still possible to see her hips swing just that little bit, a sight of which he never tires.
Something else he likes about his wife: when she says ten minutes, she means it. Almost to the second she emerges clad in a white tank top and a pair of pastel-colored cotton shorts. The light colors glow against her sun-browned skin; her thick cap of dark hair gleams from the brushing she undoubtedly gave it. She pulls an easy chair over next to the couch, and when she bends forward he gets an eyeful of slender thighs and the delicate curve of her small but delectable bum as the worn fabric rides up. She goes into the kitchen and comes back with a glass of iced tea and lemon wedges, and several sugar cookies on a little plate. These dainties she sets on the coffee table with a coaster under the glass to prevent rings on the polished wood, and settles her lean body into the chair with a quiet sigh.
Well, that won't do, not at all. Sexual frustration has made its presence known—it's been nearly two weeks and the lack of sugar is definitely felt, at least on his side of things. While he's still incredibly sore and tires easily, he wants his woman, and he wants her now. So to get things started he reaches out and steals a cookie from the little plate.
"Hey," Roz says, but he hears the laugh in her voice. "Leave my treats alone."
"Never in this lifetime," he assures her, and takes a big bite while his gaze rests on her breasts. Roz rolls her eyes.
"I just got home," she says. "Anyway, you're over there and I'm over here."
For answer he pats the spot by his hip; there's plenty of room for her. Roz looks doubtful.
"I don't want to hurt you," she says.
"Let me worry about that," he says with some impatience.
After a moment she gets up and lights on the couch like a virgin on her first date, her slender back ramrod straight with hands clasped in her lap. "Here I am," she says in a prim little voice. Greg snorts and wraps his arm around her, eases her back against him. Then he sees her grin and gives her a light smack.
"Brat."
She relaxes into his embrace and turns her head to look at him. "Look who's talking," she says. Her eyes are moss-green; their soft lights dance with amusement and, to his delight, lust. So she's hungry for more than cookies too . . . He leans in and kisses her, strokes her tongue with his. It feels so good to have her in his arms; her slight curves are warm and she smells of her favorite flower-lavender soap and herself, a stimulating combination. Her hands slide up to his chest. He feels her mutilated little finger against his pectoral, a reminder that she understands pain and recovery too.
When the kiss ends she brushes her lips over his. "If we're gonna make out, let's do this right," she says, and gets up to close the curtains against the dark, rainy afternoon and turn on the small lamp atop the end table. When she brings over her old CD player he sits up a little, intrigued. She slips in a disc and adjusts the volume, then resumes her spot on the couch. "Now, where were we?" she whispers. Her hand slides over his belly as Otis Redding starts to sing. She slips under the hospital gown he's forced to wear, takes him in hand.
It's a perfect setting: soft light in the storm's early darkness, the low hum of the box fan, the patter of rain with occasional rumbles of thunder, while the music winds its slow way through the room and she brings him, little by little, to the edge of release. Her breath strokes his jawline, sends a shiver through him so that he can't help a groan. "Please," he says, and she sends him over into sweetness that floods his body and drives away the last of the lingering pain, not just in his leg but elsewhere too, at least for a while.
He wallows in afterglow for a long time. When he finally opens his eyes it's to find Roz watches him, her head tipped back against the couch cushion. She says nothing, but she doesn't have to—he can read it all in her expression, her eyes. The absolute love there astonishes him. He lifts his hand, touches her cheek.
I've been loving you too long to stop now
you're tired and you want to be free
my love is growing stronger as you become a habit to me
His fingers trace her bottom lip, move to her jawline, and brush her neck. Slowly they drift down to the valley between her breasts and the thin skin there, like velvet under his touch.
oh I've been loving you a little too long
I don't wanna stop now
with you my life has been so wonderful
I can't stop now
He rubs his thumb over her right nipple and smiles a little as it hardens, to elicit a soft gasp from her, his name spoken low and sweet. "Greg . . ."
you're tired and your love is growing cold
my love is growing stronger as our affair grows old
I've been loving you a little too long
don't make me stop now
no baby
I'm down on my knees
please don't make me stop now
He slides lower, traces patterns over her belly, slips his fingers under the waistband to the moist curls at the join of her thighs. She's ready, the little knot of her clitoris already engorged and hot. When he circles it she arches, pushes into his hand as her lips press lightly against his carotid artery.
I love you, I love you
with all of my heart
and I can't stop now
He uses a slow, deliberate approach, brings her to the edge several times, revels in her broken moans, the way she begs him to finish. And when he does ease her into climax, she cries out his name and a dark, fierce exultation fills him as she shudders and falls back gently against his body, to seek his embrace. He puts his arms around her and holds her close, savors the feel of her heartbeat as it slowly returns to normal.
good god almighty I love you
I love you in so many different ways . . .
"I don't want you to stop," she says finally. "And I'm not tired of you. Never, amante."
"Why?" he has to ask, and flinches even as he says it. This kind of question has always spelled doom for the few love affairs of which he's ever been part.
"I love you," she says, as if that explains it.
"But . . . why?" He will never understand how she can say it, he has to push for more.
"You know why," she says, her words barely a whisper. "It's the same reason you love me." She rests her cheek against his shoulder. "It just happened, and I'm so glad."
"Most women would run like hell from an old gimp with no social skills and a history of disasters."
"I'm happy most women did," she says. "That means I get you and they don't." She sounds proud, as if she's won a prize. He can't help but argue with her.
"You're insane. I have one gift—"
"You have more than one," she says quietly, and puts her strong, slender hand over his heart. "No matter what you say I know you know how to love, because when you decided to love me you gave everything of yourself even though you were afraid to at first, and you keep on doing it. That's all that matters, amante."
"You say that now," he has to point out. "When we fight it's a different story."
"No it isn't," she says. "When you hurt me I know you still love me, and I love you too." She traces a slow circle on his skin. "We've both got a lot of old pain over having people break our trust, and sometimes it comes up between us . . . but I think we both understand that better now."
Her absolute confidence in him takes his breath away; he holds her and wonders at the amazing gift life has handed him. Greatly daring, he decides to offer something in return.
"About trust," he says, and hesitates. She doesn't push, just waits. "I've never told you how I got the scar on my leg . . ."
He makes his way through the story, a bit surprised to find the raw pain that usually accompanies it is subdued, not as sharp than he's used to. Maybe those intense emotions will never go away completely, but now they're less immediate, and for that he is grateful.
Roz listens to him in silence. After he's finished she says quietly, "I'm sorry you had to go through so much pain, amante." She kisses him and there's no pity in her touch, her soft lips a comfort to which he willingly opens.
By late afternoon the rain has cleared away to sunshine, so Roz gets up to open the curtains and the front door. She positions the fan to give the room plenty of circulation, then goes into the kitchen to make dinner. He can watch her from the couch; she flits back and forth, absorbed in her work, but now and then she turns her head and smiles at him. A short time later she comes out with a tray. There are hamburgers and condiments, a huge pile of french fries, and two bottles of beer. His mouth waters at the sight.
"I cleared it with Doctor Taub," she says, and pops the caps off the beers. "Just one for now, but I thought it would make a nice change from iced tea." She pulls a cushion from the easy chair and puts it on the floor, then sits down next to him and takes a plate, puts a burger on it. "What'll you have?"
It's the best dinner he's had since being sprung from the medical slammer; he gives thanks that his wife is a great cook while he enjoys a juicy burger (dry, grilled onions) and a massive pile of fries with ketchup. Roz turns on the tv and they flip around the channels, from CNN to ESPN to the Three Stooges. Greg throws out snarky comments and Roz fields them right back; the two of them snicker like schoolkids at their own silly jokes. It's the most pleasant way to spend an evening he can think of besides making love.
Eventually the beer hits his bladder. When he reaches for the chamber pot Roz says "Why not use the bathroom? Doctor Taub wants you to move around when you can. I'll help you."
"I hate that fucking wheelchair," he growls.
"I know you do," she says. "Give it a try anyway. If you need some incentive, I can help you clean up." She gives him a sultry look with those last words and flutters her eyelashes at him, so that he can't do anything but fight a laugh.
She helps him into the chair with that strength he always finds such a surprise, and when the pain jolts him and he swears at her, she gives it right back in Italian. But her touch is never less than gentle, and true to her word, once they arrive at the bathroom she gives him a basic sponge bath that makes him feel much better. She helps him with the dressing changes too, though it upsets her. Actually the graft and donor sites look pretty good—still red and crusty, but the graft is well on its way, and the bare patch on his thigh has started to heal and regrow new skin. Roz doesn't say anything, she doesn't shrink from the old soiled bandages and she offers him assistance to clean the sites, but he knows his pain causes her pain. And yet here she is anyway. He loves her for it, though he'll probably never say so.
"Brought you something. If you like it I can get more," she says after everything's done. She offers some folded fabric, dark blue. When he shakes it out it's a hospital gown, but not the translucent floral-patterned monstrosities he's had to wear. This is more like a lightweight surgical scrub, with fasteners in the front where he can get at them easily. He puts it on; it still sucks but it's something of an improvement, anyway.
"Blue is definitely your color," Roz says. She tilts her head. "Handsome man."
"Bet you say that to all the depraved sickos in hospital gowns," he says.
"Nope, just you. You're my favorite depraved sicko." She smiles at him. "Ready to go back?"
It takes some time to get him settled once more, but she does it with her usual graceful efficiency. Once he's comfortable she brings him some ice cream to take with his meds. She has a bowlful too, and enjoys every bite with all the enthusiasm of a small child.
When he's done she gets the airbed out from the corner and puts it into position near the couch, drapes a sheet over it and dumps a couple of pillows and another sheet at one end. Greg watches her. He knows this is a huge sacrifice on her part; she treasures the new pillowtop queen bed they bought two months ago, it keeps her lower back in decent shape. But he sleeps better when he knows she's close by, so she's been down here since his return. She clambers atop the mattress and looks at him. "Ready for the light to go off?" she asks as she always does, and turns it out when he nods. He listens to the soft rustle of sheets. Then her hand touches his for a moment. "Good night," she says softly.
The meds have begun to make him drowsy, so he slides into sleep bit by bit. The last thing he hears is Roz's breathing, slow and even—a sound he's come to know and rely on for some time now. It eases him into the soft darkness.
'I've Been Loving You Too Long', Otis Redding