by James, Ella
I lean my head against his thigh. “Mmm. Maybe.”
“I know what I want...” He trails a finger down my chest and grazes my nipple.
“Shower?” I grin.
He squeezes and I struggle not to shriek.
“We had one...” he twists; I pant...”this morning.”
“But I’m dirty.”
I can’t resist delving between his crossed legs. He’s wearing lounge pants, so I can feel every line of his perfect cock.
“Okay...” I sit up. “Shower it is.”
We get off the bed, Kellan grabs a condom from their home in my purse, and he urges me toward the bathroom with his palm on my back.
I can’t help thinking, as he strips off both our clothes, that just a few weeks ago I was undressing him and helping him wash. Starting when he woke up after his mouth sores healed, we had sex dozens of times with Kellan lying in the shower and me riding his dick. But things are better now. He’s stronger. The last few days, I kneel on a folded towel while Kellan pushes into me from behind.
There are times now when the IVs aren’t hooked up, so no more watching for the IV lines. If we time it right with nurses’ shifts, we can have sex two times a day some days.
I turn around and run my eyes over his chest, down to his hips... then to his cock, which juts up to his abs.
I run my hands over his hard, lean sides... over his hips—such a perfect V—and take his dick in my hand.
“Mm.” He reaches for my breasts, then leans down and bites my neck. He walks me backward into the shower, snatches a towel off the top of the shower wall, and tosses it onto the floor.
“Get down there. Put your fingers in your pussy. Spread it open for me.”
He starts the water... kneels. I feel his hand brace on the shower seat and then he slams into me.
“You like that,” he says, husky. “I can feel you get all tight... your pussy grabs me.” He pushes deeper, and I slip down on my forearms.
“Bigger...” I groan. “Feels... nff. You... feel bigger.”
Kellan chuckles. His arm wraps around my waist, his hand splayed over my wet hip.
I push against him with my muscles, welcoming as much of him as I can take, until I’m so full I’m moaning, heedless of who hears. His hand slides down my belly, fingers parting my lips... He lightly touches my clit, rolling his fingertip through my slit where I’m slick, then rolling back around my swollen bud, just grazing it...
I thrust back against him. “Ohhh.... that’s good.”
“You’re so tight. Fucking... ahh. So—” he thrusts—“fucking tight and hot and wet for me... My little slut. Sticking things... into your pussy... while I slept. Sucking me off... Oh... couldn’t stay away could you?”
His finger rolls over my clit, causing it to throb... My cunt tightens around him. Kellan moans.
“I made you come in the hallway, didn’t I? Touching...your greedy little pussy...like right now. You’re sopping wet. I feel those hips shaking...so full...full of cock... I’ve got you all filled up...all stretched and swollen. All except your asshole.” His hand leaves my pulsing clit, grazing the base of his cock, stroking up...up toward my tight hole. His fingertip teases cruelly...applying pressure as my pussy clamps around his pounding cock.
“I think if I slide into you, your pussy would get real tight on my cock. Tight enough to hurt... Bear down baby.” I do, and he shoves inside.
“Ahh!” It always stings a little at first. He holds still, letting me adjust, then pushes in until he’s buried to the knuckle.
“Fuck,” I grunt. His finger’s wide.
I can feel him sagging over me. “So tight... oh God, I’m gonna come in you... I wanna fill you up...” I clench around his dick and push against him one more time, until his cock has split me open and his finger is deep in my ass. It feels so good. I quiver and keep thrusting my hips. His cock swells and hardens and I feel his finger curl.
“Fuck... fuck. Oh Cleo.” He spasms, and then I’m filled with pulsing warmth.
“Ohhhh, yes.” I sag. He holds me to him. “Ahhh.” He draws gently out of me and leans against the wall. I rest my cheek against his heaving chest.
His hand trails over my hips, between my leg. He cups me. “I can feel it dripping out of you...” He parts me with his fingertip and eases just a little of it inside, where—he’s right—I’m full and dripping.
“Mmm.” Inside I’m full... it’s warm... his fingertip feels good... the way they stretch me... “Kellan...” I giggle, pushing at, then pulling on his hand.
His mouth brushes my ear. He drags his finger up and down my slit. “What do you think? You want me to stop now?”
“No...”
His free hand cups my breast. His finger eases in... and then another one. I grunt. “You sure?”
I grip his forearm. “I want...” His fingers writhe. I clamp around him.
“Mmm... I could do this all day—and all night.”
“Forever,” I moan.
He kisses my neck, and fingers me until I scream. And helps me up, and wraps me in a towel. Then his robe.
We’re back in bed in time to play some Call of Duty before Areteha starts the next round of IVs.
I lie on my side with Kellan’s big, warm body tucked around mine. We both fall asleep, and when we wake up at half past nine, there’s chicken pizza on the table.
Kellan yawns and shrugs. “I got a craving.”
I drip ranch under the collar of his shirt and pull it up so I can lick it off his pec. We go to sleep like that, except I don’t need as much sleep as he does, so I’m up at three a.m.—just me and the hospital room. I slip out of the bed and walk over to the windows. Look down at the busy streets.
I wonder what it’s like, a night in New York? It’s so weird that I’ve been here for almost a month and haven’t even had a hot dog from a street cart.
I look over at the bed, where Kellan’s sleeping on his side. The tiny, plastic IV tube stretches over the mattress, delivering... hmm? Steroids? Or that drug for GVHD, a post-transplant complication that’s making his blood counts a little weird.
I walk slowly over to the bed and look down at him... really look at him. Now that he’s getting fewer fevers, and we’ve got our pretzel sleeping position established, he never wears the beanie when he sleeps.
I let my eyes trace the curve of his head. Perfect. The other day, Lora asked me how I handle being here. All the unpleasantness... the hard days and the pain and sweat and blood and sometimes tears. I couldn’t tell her. If you’ve never been here like I have, you wouldn’t understand.
How every drop of sweat is precious. The overpowering evergreen mouthwash... the scentless lotion I would rub on him a few weeks back when his skin got ultra dry and kind of chapped (the GVHD again). I’ve held him while he cried dozens of times. I know that when he’s done, he always hugs my neck and nuzzles up under my chin and strokes my cheek and often says, “sorry.” And I never care, because every tear is precious too. If I could bottle them, I would. Wear them around my neck forever, like my origami sparrow.
I walk back across the room, to the little desk where I keep my portfolio. I sit down in the rolling chair and pull the yellow legal pads out of my folder. With my cell phone, I check each pad for dates.
I find the first one, then get up again to get my stuffed sloth from the foot of the bed. I curl my legs up in the chair and hug sloth while I read.
I read all night—and I realize, these aren’t letters. This is Kellan’s diary; it’s just addressed to me. To Sloth.
I smile and laugh and cry onto the pages. It’s not easy, reading all his pain. I can’t go back in time. I can’t even travel forward. I’m stuck here in this day. But in this day, I can do something. So I slip back into bed.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Cleo
October 20, 2014
First the dumbbells. Then the stationary bike. I watch him work out while I cross-stitch in the recliner. And when he’s done, we get a
shower.
We dry each other, slip into our robes—he bought me one—and Kellan heads back for the bed, and Game of Thrones.
I head for the dresser drawers and thumb through his clothes until I find the ones I ordered just the other day. A pair of new jeans—32-32, rather than his previous 36-32s—and a soft, cream Irish Aran sweater. Wool socks, check. Ugg moccasins that look like bedroom slippers but have real soles, check.
I grab my own clothes, push a chair under the room’s doorknob, and slip into my leggings and my own green sweater.
Kellan whistles.
“I might need a shower.”
“Nope!” I drop his clothes at the foot of the bed, and he thumbs through the pile. “Going commando I see.”
“Whoops. Forgot your underwear.”
He laughs. “I’m wearing them, Cleo baby. Pulled them on before I got up on the bed. For Arethea. Keep her blood pressure down.”
I roll my eyes and toss the jeans at him. “Get dressed then. Get.”
His face goes serious and smooth, his eyebrows arching. When he speaks, his voice is soft. “Where am I going?”
“Not home yet. Which, duh. But... somewhere. I already got approval for us.”
I let down the rail and tug his arm. He tugs back on me, pulling me atop his lap. “You need help dressing?” I tease him. He doesn’t—anymore—but honestly, the idea of helping him now is kind of sexy. Kellan has the perfect legs, all sinewy and still remarkably muscular, probably from the obsessive working out he’s been doing in the last week.
“To protect my heart,” he always says.
I always wink and tell him, “I don’t need protection.” And then I try to forget what he really means by that: his twin had heart issues from chemo, and Kellan’s had a lot of it at this point.
He kisses my jaw, my throat... I push at him. “C’moooon.” I throw my arms around his shoulders. “This is gonna be amazing. For at least half of us. The other half that’s holding us up right now gets the rubber chicken for dinner.” I reach onto the bed side table and grab the actual rubber chicken I ordered a few days ago, as a representative of our favorite horrible hospital meal. Kellan squeezes its head, making it cluck.
“Okay.” He drops it on the bed and sets me on the floor, then slides off the mattress. I touch his chest, parting the robe so I can see his lean, hard body. I stroke a finger down his ribcage, just over the broken ones, which are pretty close to being healed now. “I kind of want to dress you. Say yes?”
He smiles smugly, tugging on my tight sweater. “Wear this next shower, and yeah, you’ve got a deal.”
“Kay.”
I tug his boxer-briefs down, and Kellan’s cock twitches. I pull them back up. “Okay... boxer-briefs, check.”
Kellan chuckles as I pool the jeans at his feet, then stroke my palm up his calf. “Right foot first,” I tell him, smiling sweetly. It’s really weird, I know, but being down here at his feet, coaxing him into clothes, reminds me of how far he’s come and makes me happy.
He complies, resting his hands lightly on my shoulders as he steps in. “I don’t know these jeans. Are they new?”
“They’re very funny. Great to have at parties. Nickname Blue.” I run my fingers up his left thigh. “Left foot now.”
When he’s standing in the jeans, I pull them slowly up his thighs... With one hand gripping them on each side of his hips, I tug a little harder over his boxer-briefs. I catch his now-hard dick in the zipper area on purpose and then reach into the jeans. “Pshh. I’m so uncoordinated.”
I fondle his balls, and Kellan hisses. “Damn, woman. You sure you want to leave the room?”
I push his dick down into the pants, then zip and button, giving his bulge a final pat before I grab the sweater. “Yep, I’m sure. And so do you.”
I only fondle his chest for a minute before pulling the sweater onto him. When I’m finished, I present the moccasins and Kellan smirks at them. “I’m wearing these puppies outside?”
“They’ve got real soles.”
“If you say so.” He turns a slow circle, looking down at himself. “Not bad threads. Right size too.”
“I know you inside out.” I wiggle my brows. Then I push the gray beanie onto his head.
“You’re gonna need this, baldie.”
“You know you like this smooth head rubbing on you. When my hair grows back, you’ll want it shaved.”
I blush, because he’s kind of right. It does feel good against my pussy.
We both mask and glove up. I take a moment just to look at his pretty blue eyes before we leave the room. We step into the hall and Kimmie, one of the nurses, grins at us. “You guys going somewhere?”
“Somewhere,” I say. We pass Arethea at the nurse’s desk and she presses a button behind the counter that opens the doors for us. Kellan’s eyebrows shoot up to his hat.
“Well, fuck.” It’s murmured, husky. I take his hand, and we walk slowly out into the lobby just outside the locked unit. We both stop and look around. It’s been weeks since either of us has left the locked unit. If I had left at any time, I’d have had to wear a gown, a mask, and gloves the whole time I was in his room. I couldn’t do that—so I stayed.
The air out here feels cool. It smells... like food? Some kind of cleaner. Lemons.
We walk slowly over fresh-waxed tile and into a shining, narrow hall. Kellan stops and grips my shoulder with his gloved hand. “Cleo baby...” He blinks, heavy lidded, his face unreadable. Then he bends down, pulls his mask off, pulls mine down, and kisses my lips. It’s gentle, sweet, and painfully brief.
Then we’re walking hand and hand again, Hansel and Gretel following bread crumbs. To the elevator. We get in it and he pushes me against the wall. He leans against me, his face in my hair—and I remember. I remember what he told me about the day Lyon died: how he got in an elevator without shoes and fled the hospital.
I wrap my arms around his back and murmur sweetness in his ear. And then the doors tremble open. We shuffle out into a vast lobby.
Once we get a few feet from the elevator shaft, we stop and look around. It smells like car exhaust. People walk past us—real people in real people clothes. They look sad, tired, bored, irritable. They have long hair, no hair, dread locks. One pulls a wagon stacked with luggage. Another carries a small child.
My eyes travel up the columns, toward the glass ceiling several stories up. I look back down to find his blue eyes on me. They look wet maybe. I can’t tell. I squeeze his hand.
“Want to keep going?” I whisper.
He nods, and we slowly walk toward the row of glass doors. I get all the doors for us, and when we get outside, I have to resist the urge to throw myself on him and shelter him from all the dangers here. Viruses... bacteria... fungi. For right now, he has no immune system and could catch anything.
For right now, he tips his head up to the sky. His eyes shut. I wrap arms around his waist and press my cheek against his sweater.
I feel him inhale. He murmurs, “Fuck.”
When we look into each other’s eyes again, I can see his are a little red. Mine probably are too.
I can him smile, despite the mask. “Where you wanna go?” his low voice asks.
I smile back. “The hot dog stand?”
His arm bumps mine, our hands still joined. “Gotta have a chili dog.”
“Is that okay?” I feel a little bad, because he can’t have one. Because of germs.
His fingers squeeze mine. “I’d say you earned a chili dog.”
I giggle. “Maybe just a little.”
“I’ve got one I know you’ll like. Tastes best with a little soap and water.” I look up, and find a dark spark of arousal in his eyes.
“I’ll save room for seconds then.”
We get my chili dog. I eat it from the little baggie it comes in, keeping my germy, gloved hands far from my mouth, and then we walk back inside the hospital. Kellan stops inside the doors and looks around.
“I guess you’ve seen th
is place a bunch of times.”
“Not this last time,” he says, almost absently.
“Where did you come in?”
“Around in back. The ambulance entrance.”
“So it was plane, then ambulance?” I can’t believe I’ve never asked.
He nods. “Want to see?”
I look up at his face and find it curiously soft. I nod and toss my chili dog trash and Kellan takes my hand.
We walk down a long, white and gray hall that seems to skirt the outside of the building, and Kellan’s breathing is more audible. I stop us. I tug at his sweater.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
I smile up at him. “Just brushing off some white lint.”
“Are you?” He smirks, because he knows I stopped us so he could catch his breath.
I wink. “Yep. We can resume now.”
The walk is long, so I can tell he must really want to go here. And then we reach the “ambulatory transfer” area, and I blink. It looks a little like the warehouse where we met Pace and Manning that night. I see some nurses at a nurse’s station, and a door to an ER, but otherwise it’s empty.
“Nice place. Lively.”
He smiles down at me. I wish I could see his mouth, because based on his eyes alone, the smile looks sad.
“It was lively that day. Lots of people.” I can’t help wrapping an arm around him. Standing extra close to him. I look up at his face. “People for you?”
He nods.
I squeeze my eyes shut, because I really don’t want to make this about me and my guilt.
His gloved hand rubs my arm through my sweater. It’s an absent gesture, showing how in tune we are with each other’s unspoken thoughts; he doesn’t know I feel sick with guilt, but he can tell I need his touch. I watch his eyes circle the room. And I realize with a jolt: I think he wants me to ask.
So I put on my big-girl panties. “What was it like?” I ask softly.
He pulls me under his arm, up against him, then he wraps an arm around my back.
“I don’t remember that much,” he says, looking thoughtful. “Lots of Dil.” That’s what the nurses call Dilaudid.
