by Daisy Allen
"I think it's actually supposed to go the opposite way," Jez says, and stabs his fork into one of the other containers.
"What do you mean?" I say, not even bothering to cover my mouth as I talk.
"I mean," he says and waves the forkful of duck in front of my face, "your mouth is what is supposed to be giving the orgasm."
His eyebrows lift as he gauges my reaction. Which is, to lunge forward and take a bite of the food on his fork.
"Hey!" he protests, trying to pull the fork away. But I have it trapped in my mouth as I pull the food off it, chewing as it melts in my mouth.
"Mmmmm..." I moan, releasing the fork as he stares at me, his jaw dropped.
"You little minxy food thief!
"Totally worth it," I mumble, my mouth half full.
He laughs and tries a forkful of the food for himself. "Damn. That is good."
"Told you."
He reaches past me for the container of soup and then stops, his eyes locked on my face.
When he doesn't look away, it becomes awkward and I can feel myself squirming under his gaze. Does he not like the way my hair is? Did I put too much blush on?
"Um..." I say, not knowing how else to break the silence. But he just lifts his hand to my face and his thumb brushes over the corner of my mouth.
"You had a little something…" he says, his voice deep, and husky. Then he moves his thumb to his mouth and sucks off the drop of soup collected there. The action is so unexpectedly intimate, I feel something in my groin constrict, and then a dull thumping between my legs.
"Um, thanks," I mutter, hoping he can't see his effect on me, but not wanting to tear my eyes away from his.
His mouth curves into a smile, showing just the barest flash of teeth as he reaches over, his eye still on me, and feeds me another forkful of food. Involuntarily, I lean forward and my mouth wraps around it, each tiny movement playing out in slow motion in my head. He pulls the fork away and I chew on the food, barely tasting anything.
He leans in and his face is barely inches from mine. My jaw stops moving, as does every part of me, and I hold my breath.
I don't know what's happening, but I can't think right now.
I can just wait.
Please kiss me, my brain is flashing in neon lights, but all I see is his face. His rugged, handsome, impossibly chiseled, sexy face right in front of mine.
He leans in, that last few inches, and I feel the tip of his tongue brush against my top lip. So lightly, I think I might be imagining it.
I feel something catch in my throat.
And it might be a moan.
He pulls away just far enough so that I can see his whole face and he's grinning.
"Tastes good," he says, "just like I thought it would. I mean, I’ve only been thinking about my tongue running along your lips since we got interrupted last night." He ends with a wink and I think that if a woman could climax from a wink alone, it would be me, in this moment.
Then he leans back and spoons soup into his mouth, like nothing just happened.
I sit there, frozen, not sure how to react.
What just happened?
It wasn't a kiss. But it's wasn't not a kiss.
He licked my lip! That usually comes after a kiss. How do you know you HAVEN’T kissed before? My brain presses. Aw, fuck.
This is going to be more complicated than I thought.
The sound of a fork clattering to the ground makes me force myself to focus on what's going on outside of my brain. Jez reaches over reaching under the coffee table, and then flinches and cusses under his breath.
"I got it, don’t worry," I say, and reach under the table, feeling for the fork and placing it on the edge of the table.
"Sorry. Didn’t mean to swear," he says, and there's darkness flooding his eyes that makes my heart clench for him. He's obviously still in a lot of pain. And I'm not sure how far along he is in his recovery, but the frustration is so apparent. What a pair we make. I wonder if I offered him the chance to lose some of his memory and yet have full control of his hands, if he would take it.
I feel like I'd make that trade in a second, but I guess the grass is greener on the other side of the hospital bed.
"Hey, eat up, or it'll get cold,” I nudge him, with the back of my spoon. He sighs and nods and takes the spoon from me, and I try not to let him catch me watching him.
"I'm... I'm still working on it. Sometimes it's okay, and sometimes, it just gives way completely. Gripping is still a little hard, probably have to hold off on the chopsticks for a bit."
"No shame there. I could have use of a hundred hands and still not be able to pick up a single egg roll with chopsticks."
"Well, you know what IS easy to pick up and eat?" he asks, relaxing a little, and I can read the cheekiness in his eyes enough to know what's coming.
"If you say ‘falafel,’ I'm not going to give you even a single bite of that tiramisu."
"Hey, that's mean. What are you, a physiotherapist?" He shudders and his hand comes up to rub his wrist unconsciously.
"Wow, that's random," I mumble around a mouthful of salad.
"You've obviously not had the pleasure of meeting the resident torture expert on the staff here," his nose crinkling as he says it.
"I mean, who decides, ‘you know what? I'd like to cause mortal pain to people all day, every day, and get paid for it.’"
"Well, it's not what I would've chosen, but hey, guess some people have a knack for it."
"What would you have chosen, I mean, forgive me, but surely you didn't spend your childhood thinking, you know what? I want to work in a takeout place my whole life."
"Hardly. No, I moved to L.A. for a very specific reason."
"Let me guess. Celeb dog walking?"
I guffaw and almost spit out my food. I take a slow drink from the water glass before I continue. "No, I moved here to... don't laugh, I wanted to get a record deal."
"Playing the uke?"
"I said, don't laugh."
"Hey, Noémie, look at me. Does it look like I'm laughing?"
He touches my arm and it’s impossible not to look at him. He isn't laughing. If anything, he looks like he believes I’m being completely serious.
"Anyway, it was a pipe dream. I got laughed out of a few studios and agents’ offices and I realized how ridiculous I'd been. I mean, I came from a small town in Maine. I didn't know anything about the music industry, I didn't know what was and wasn’t selling or was popular. I just knew that I like playing my music and listening to it, and I thought, hey maybe there would be people out there who would too. It didn’t have to be hundreds of millions, but a few. And I would be okay with playing to those few."
I take a long breath and realize I'd just blurted out feelings I hadn't thought about in years. It sounds funny to hear me talk about dreams I'd had three or four years ago. A lifetime ago now.
"So, why did you stay?" he asks. Like he's reading my mind.
I just shrug, putting my fork down.
"I don't know. Because it's easier just to stay than go home a failure, I guess."
"Or is it because you still had a part of you that still dreamt?"
"I... huh. If you'd asked me six months ago, hell, six days ago, I would've told you, no, not a chance. but now... now that I've been playing again the last few days, I guess. I guess, yes, the dream never really went away."
"It shouldn't. You are going to be a superstar one day, Noémie. Mark my words. You can write it down and I will sign it for you, that I make that prediction. I mean, my signature will be a handprint cos, you know," he holds up his hand, and it hands limply.
I reach out and take it, holding it between mine. It's warm, almost hot. He has long, thin fingers, large knuckles and cleanly clipped fingernails. Artistic hand features. I turn it over and smooth my palm over his, running my fingertips over the lines, reading his fate. Then I bring it to my mouth and lay a kiss on his palm.
"Ah, the kiss of healing," he says and sm
iles at me.
"You're going to be okay."
He takes a deep breath. "How do you know?"
"The same way you know I'm going to be a musical star."
"No, I have evidence. I've heard you play."
"I have evidence as well. I see how strong you are. You complain like a little bitch. But you're strong. You're going to make it through this." I nod to emphasize my point.
"Thank you. The little bitch inside me is offended, but only because she wants you to be right."
"So, you know what my unfulfilled dream is? What's yours?"
"As of now, it's the same as yours."
"You want to be a uke star?"
"No, I want to see you become one. And I promise you, I'm going to do everything I can to make it happen."
"What can you do? Buy up all my albums?" I poke my tongue out at him.
"No, I won't need to, I'll be fighting everyone else off to get one."
I clutch my chest, like I’ve been hit by an arrow at his smooth line. "Just how many women's hearts have you broken with that silver tongue of yours?"
"Hah, none that counted."
"I bet they counted."
"I never led anyone to believe anything that wasn't true. They may have believed it was going to be truer for longer than they thought..." He gives me a wink and I feel both envy and pity for the women who have been lucky enough to have had their hearts broken by him.
"Playboy."
"I'm only about 70% guilty of that."
"Honestly though, I never told any woman I loved her, I never told her I'd be exclusive only to her. I may have told her she had eyes that sparkled like the moon. But I meant it, at least in that moment. Not my fault the next morning the sun dims the moonlight.”
“You are terrible.”
The grin he flashes me tells me he has no regrets. And I can’t blame him. If I looked like him, I’d probably want to have some fun as well, and as someone who had been flashed that smile and fed those lines, I don’t blame the women for falling for it either.
The question is – do I allow myself to fall for them now? And do I even have a choice.
We spend the next half an hour devouring the food and arguing over who is the best Batman. The sexual tension of the lip licking and the seriousness of the dreams spilling conversation is temporarily over, and I feel more comfortable with him than I do with almost everyone else in my life.
Comfortable, with a side of complete terror of what’s happening between us.
Our spoons battle for the last piece of the decadent tiramisu, which I win, and we both fall back against the couch, clutching our stomachs.
“Oh my god. That was amazing.”
“Yeah, Brad is a lucky, and probably very soon to be, fat man.”
“Is there any way I can get her to make me lunch every day?”
“Actually, she’d be happy to. She’s great. She has a little boy, Ben, who is going to grow up to be president of the world, or a pineapple. He hasn’t decided which just yet,” Jez tells me, a chuckle on his lips.
I realize that I’m slowly becoming addicted to hearing him talk about the people in his life, and I crave to know more. I can’t help but wonder, how many of these stories I’ve heard before and how much I knew about him. But I was the one who suggested the start afresh rule and It still feels right to try to stick by it. He talks about his friends for a little while longer, nothing specific, just how they like to horse around and how he's happy that they've found some really wonderful women to be with. I could sit and listen all day; he's funny and animated and makes me feel like he's known me his whole life.
He makes me wish he has.
Somewhere in the middle of his story, I feel a yawn coming on and try to stifle it, but it takes on a life of its own and a hand over my mouth barely hides it.
"I knew it, I'm boring you."
"No," I say, although my mouth is still half open and my jaw locking. "I'm just so full from the amazing lunch. I guess I could use a nap."
"I was actually, er, I was hoping you could help me with something."
"Sure. Anything. Unless it’s eating."
"I was actually wondering, would you come to my PT appointment with me?” He glances at clock on the wall. I notice he’s not wearing a watch on his wrist. “It starts in a few minutes." I don't know what to say, I'm so touched that he'd want me there. "You don't have to, of course..."
I shake my head and jump to my feet. "Are you kidding? I'm... yes. I'd be happy to come. Just let me freshen up a bit.”
"Yeah, go ahead, I'll meet you at the elevators in five minutes?"
"It's a date," I say, before I can stop myself, and I close the bathroom door fast behind me before he can see my face flush beet red.
Stupid! Why did I say that? I run my fingers under the tap and flick them on my burning cheeks.
Because he licked your lip, you giddy school girl. And now you have to sit on your hands in case you rip his clothes off.
I can't help it. There's just... there's something about him that just makes me utterly and completely alive. Feminine, sensual... and understood. The way he looks at me when he talks, never breaking eye contact, like it matters that I listen to every word he says. And when I talk, he does the same, his head tilting to the side, his face breaking into smiles or concern depending on what I'm saying.
And the few times we've touched, it just makes me crave him more. It's been a long time since I felt a connection with anything other than my recovery, but he makes me feel like this is just temporary, and that I can't wait to get back to my life. A life I want him to be a part of.
So yes, I said it's a date.
Because he wants me to be there.
And I want to be there for him.
And already, in the space of a few days, I care more about this mystery man's recovery than I do about mine.
I run my palms over my hair, glad that I'd taken the time over my appearance today and open the door to meet him.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jez
"You really should make up some new business cards. They should just say one word on them. SATAN. Glossy red on a pitch-black background. And flaming devil horns over the font. I'll hand them out for you."
"Are you done?" Brian, my PT, says, hands on his hips.
I think about it for a moment and then nod. "For now."
"Then hurry up with the bicep curls."
"See what I mean?" I say to Noémie, who's sitting next to the exercise station, stretching out one of the elastics between her hands. She's making it look so easy, it's making me almost regret asking her to come along.
This isn't the Jez I want her to see. I want her to see the Jez benching 300 at the gym and barely breaking a sweat, not one complaining about doing a simple bicep curl with something girls use to tie up their hair. But I did ask her. Surprising myself. I just didn’t want my time with her to end. Of course, I’d prefer it to be with us sweaty, naked, her legs around my waist and her calling my name in the absolute throes of passion. But considering where we are, having her here with me during torture hour is the next best thing.
"Not at all, I find Brian utterly charming."
"That's because he's not performing torture on you."
"Is he always like this?" Brian asks her.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, to put it in professional medical terms, a whiny baby."
"Oh that. Well," she touches her temple as if thinking, and I glare at her. "I can’t say I know him that well or for that long but, I would have to say, yes, yes he is." She nods her head up and down emphatically.
"What? Get out!" I say, pointing to the door, and then grimace as a sharp pain shoots up my arm.
She laughs, throwing me a wink, her eyes lighting up. "This one time, he came barging into my room and was like, ’Oh, why don't you remember me, how come you don't know who I am?"' And she faces Brian, pausing for effect before delivering the punchline, "I have amnesia!"
Br
ian looks at me, his jaw dropping open. "Dude. Nice going."
I growl at them both, should’ve known that they’d gang up on me. "I didn't know she had amnesia! She looks so normal and sweet. Who knew that she was in cahoots with THE DEVIL?!"
"Oh, hush and do your exercises," Noémie says, flicking the elastic band at my head.
"Ow!” I yelp, rubbing the back of my neck.
"Whiny baby,” she shoots at me, and sighs, shrugging her shoulders dramatically.
Brian gets up laughing and leads me over to sit a table. He hands me a small foam ball and I hesitate before taking it.
"Come on, Jez. You can do it. I know it's hard." He pushes his hand closer to me.
I lean away from it, like it’s made of cyanide. "It's not hard, mate, it's almost impossible."
"Yeah, almost. That's the difference."
I take the ball in my hand and stare at it, almost willing for it to squeeze itself instead of having to do it myself. My fingers slowly fold in around the ball, but they barely touch it before springing open again, sweat from the effort already dripping into my eyes.
Why is this so hard? And why does it have to be my arms, my hands… my livelihood. No, not my livelihood, my life. The thought that’s always lingering in the back of my brain, that I’ll never be able to go back to playing the cello like I used to do, bores into my skull and I can barely focus on anything else. I take a breath, and try to bend my fingers in again, the stiffness making it feel like trying to manipulate concrete poles. A strike of pain flashes up my wrist and the ball rolls out of my palm and onto the floor.
“Fuck!”
I lean over, to reach for it, my arm locking at the elbow and I can’t help but growl in pain.
“Goddamn it to hell!” I’m breathless from the effort of squeezing a ball and bending over to pick something up. Not to mention, my body is screaming with pain now.
Brian picks up the ball and pushes it into my palm.
“Again.”
“Fuck you, Brian.”
“Do it again, Jez.”
Our eyes lock, and I’m wishing him bloody murder in my head, but he doesn’t waver.
