After Hours

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

  “See?” she said, kind of lifting her thigh in a way that made me cringe. “You can look at it, Marc. It’s not going to morph into a spontaneous appendectomy.”

  “Don’t make me re-wrap that gauze around your mouth instead of your leg.”

  When I made myself look down, though, there wasn’t much to see. A tidy row of blue stitches, and nothing else. No sign of where the reddish mark had come from.

  “Are you going to faint?” she teased. “Should I get some smelling salts?”

  “I’m not that bad off.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I rolled my eyes and bent down to take hold of the gauze. “If you weren’t injured and drugged up, I’d be doling out some serious punishment right now, you realize that right?”

  “Like what?”

  As I finished redressing the wound, I caught the entertained sparkle in her eye. “You’re not supposed to sound happy about the idea.”

  “Maybe I’m just curious about how you think I should be put in my place.”

  “I’m not sure you could be put in your place.”

  “But you do think I have one?”

  I noted the abrupt change in her tone. “Are we still talking about how funny you think my dislike of giant needles is?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes,” she said again.

  I waited for her to retract the affirmation, but her eyes were trained out the front windshield now. So I just closed her door instead, then made my way around to the driver’s side. We moved silently out of the parking lot, then out to the street. We got as far as our own neighborhood before she spoke again, still without looking my way.

  “You just had to label yourself?”

  “Label myself?”

  “Boyfriend.” It was almost a whisper—like she was saying the world’s dirtiest word.

  I wasn’t going to back down, though. “Yes. As a matter of fact, I did.”

  The intensity of my statement made her blink, and she swiveled her face toward me and blurted, “Why?”

  “You really have to ask that?”

  “Boyfriend sounds so…ominous.”

  I might’ve laughed if she hadn’t seemed so serious. “Hell of a lot better than fuck buddy.”

  From the corner of my eye, I spotted the flush that crept up her cheeks. Her attention moved to the window once more, and I didn’t know if she was embarrassed or mad or something else completely. I didn’t care. I had to lay it out. I lifted a hand from the steering wheel and ran it over my hair before saying what I knew I had to say.

  “I needed to label myself because it’s the only way I can justify how I felt when I saw all that blood rushing out of your leg.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It fucking scared me, Aysia. And not because I’m not crazy about blood. I was worried that you were really hurt. I made the femoral artery comment because for a second it crossed my mind. I know I said I could be patient, but fuck. What the hell would I do if something happened to you? Who would even know I should be doing something? And before you remind me again that we can’t, shouldn’t, or won’t be together...just remember that you’re not numb when you’re with me, honey. Tell yourself whatever you want, but I know I mean something to you.” I exhaled. “That’s why I want the goddamned label.”

  We reached her apartment then, and suddenly, I was drained, and not just from the speech. From the stress of worrying about her. From feeling at least partially responsible for the giant gash on her leg. But mostly from pretending that the rush of emotion meant less than it did.

  I might’ve said even more if my phone hadn’t echoed noisily through the car right that second. Welcoming the distraction, I lifted it from the console and swiped the on-button. “Hi, Dad.”

  “Marcelo. Were you just going to let us wonder all night what happened to that pretty girl of yours?”

  I tossed a glance Aysia’s way. “The pretty girl is fine. But she’s not mine.”

  “Better get on that, then, son.”

  “We work together, Dad.”

  “How do you think I met your mom?”

  “I know. But this is different.”

  “Because she says so?”

  “Exactly.”

  He went silent for second, then sighed loudly. “All right. Glad she’s okay. We locked your place up and we’re camping out at the Sheraton if you want to swing by.”

  I tossed another quick look Aysia’s way. Her eyes were on her hands, her bottom lip sucked under the top one. The flush was still in her cheeks, and this time it sent a renewed trickle of worry through me.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I said into the phone. “I think I’m going to stick around her place and make sure she doesn’t need anything.”

  “All right. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Sounds good.” I hung up the phone and reached over to touch Aysia’s knee. “You feeling okay?”

  “A little tired,” she admitted.

  “Okay. We can talk more about the B-word later. For now, let’s get you upstairs and into bed.”

  I waited for an innuendo-laden reply. I didn’t get one. With a stifled sigh, I unbuckled my seatbelt, exited the car, then came to her side and scooped her out. She didn’t argue as I lifted her out, or as I turned her so she could key in her code, but once we were actually in the elevator inside her building, she let out a sigh.

  “You don’t have to come in,” she said.

  “I do, actually,” I replied as the elevator slid open.

  “I’m fine to take care of myself.”

  “That’s clearly the meds talking.”

  “I’m not some needy invalid who—”

  “Okay, stop right there. What’s this really about?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are literally an invalid at the moment, honey,” I pointed out, stopping in front of her door. “Your leg is frozen, the doctor made you use a wheelchair, and I’m pretty sure if I put you down right here, you’d be stuck in that spot for the rest of the night.”

  “I’m not going to apologize for that.”

  “Am I asking you to?”

  “No, but—”

  “But what?”

  Her mouth set into a stubborn line. “If you put me down, I could just crawl inside.”

  I fought a laugh. “You’d have to reach the door handle first.”

  “I have long arms.”

  “Aysia…”

  “Really long arms.”

  “You know, I happen to think it requires more balls to admit that you need help than to pretend that you don’t.”

  Her mouth twitched. “More balls? Is that what you’re after?”

  “Lady balls,” I amended. “Which I happen to admire greatly. So you don’t have to be stubborn about it. You can just ask.”

  “Why am I asking? You’ve already decided you’re coming in.”

  “Because it’ll make me feel like less of a pushy asshole.” I slid my hand over to her chin and leaned in for a quick, light kiss. “And talking to my dad reminds me that I’m supposed to have good manners.”

  “You are a pushy asshole.”

  “That doesn’t mean I can’t also be polite.”

  “I’m pretty sure impolite is the very definition of pushy asshole.”

  I might’ve argued further, but a door up the hall swung open, and a familiar voice carried through the corridor. “Some of us prefer to carry on our conversation inside our homes.”

  I swung sideways and spied a tiny, wizened old lady with her hands on her hips and her feet planted on her doormat. I knew who she was even before Aysia groaned and issued a greeting.

  Mrs. Fisk.

  “Ms. Banks,” said the old woman. “Just how late—and how long—are you planning on be
ing out here causing a ruckus?”

  “Just for a minute more,” Aysia assured her, nudging me with her elbow. “C’mon.”

  I waited until Mrs. Fisk had huffed once more and closed her door before I spoke.

  “You still haven’t asked me to come in,” I said.

  “Seriously?” she replied.

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. Marc?”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you please come in?”

  “Glad to. But if you proposition me, I’m going to have to say no. Doctor’s orders.”

  With an eye roll, she reached out to key in the second set of numbers, and when the automatic lock clicked, I pushed the door open with my shoulder and carried her inside.

  “Where would you like me to put you?” I teased. “That fancy couch of yours, or would you prefer that I take you straight to bed? In a strictly non-sexual way, of course.”

  “Shut up. I’m probably going to go straight to sleep,” she said. “But I should also probably try to get there myself.”

  “I can carry you.”

  “I know. But I need to be able to get up and down on my own when you go.”

  “I’m not going,” I said.

  “Yes you are.”

  “No.”

  “Marc.”

  “I’m like a vampire. Once you’ve invited me in officially, I can come and go as I please. And right now, I want to stay.”

  She didn’t laugh, or even smile. Instead, she just looked up at me with worry-tinged eyes. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

  The admission came out in a small voice that made me want to crush her to my chest and kiss the stupid out of her. My thoughts went to her father, and how he’d left. Right around the time Walt was dying. When she needed him the most.

  A puzzle piece snapped into place.

  Those pivotal events were exactly what made Aysia who she was. Losing her father and her first love. They created the tough and driven woman who was stealing my heart, piece by piece. But they were the source of her vulnerability, too—the part that she tried to hide and the part that made her tense at the idea of commitment.

  I fought to keep my fist from tightening in anger at her father, and frustration at the universe for taking Walt away, and made myself channel the negative emotion into a need to protect her and reassure her instead.

  I swept a wild curl from her face and met her eyes. “Honey, I’m just plain not easy to get rid of. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than here with you.”

  “But you didn’t even get to eat your shrimp scampi.”

  “So I’ll make a sandwich. You hungry?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither,” I admitted.

  “So…bed for both of us?” she asked.

  “But no sex.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “I refuse to answer on the grounds that I may be forced to lie.”

  She laughed, and I headed for the loft, taking the stairs as quickly as I could. I set her on the edge of the bed—black satin sheets now, instead of red, and no less sexy—and offered to help her get changed. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I remembered what she had on under the borrowed T-shirt and boxers.

  She lifted an eyebrow.

  Shit.

  Apparently she remembered, too.

  In spite of the fact that it was my fucking feelings that’d been running the show for the last little bit, my body was totally happy to be reminded of its own wants. When she put her hands at the bottom of the T-shirt and started to tug it up, my cock immediately came to attention. I took a step back.

  Think about something else, I commanded. Sad puppies with big eyes. Hairy testicles. Anything.

  It didn’t do much good. Especially not when the T-shirt came off and landed on the floor. Scantily-clad Aysia and my self-control were a bad combination. Almost as bad as her leg and the giant shard of glass.

  That, I said silently. Use that. You’d never forgive yourself if you tore her stitches.

  “Is that a ‘no’ to the help, then?” I made myself say.

  In response, she pushed her foot to the floor, raised her injured leg, then shimmied out of the boxers.

  Fuck.

  I closed my eyes and counted to ten. When I opened them again, she’d already stripped off the stockings, and was unlacing the crisscrossed ribbon at the front of her sexy little top. Her eyes were fixed on me, their blue hue full of undisguised want.

  “You know what?” I said. “I’m just gonna get in bed and wait.”

  “And if I decide to sleep naked?” she asked.

  “I can handle it.”

  “Liar.”

  I shrugged, then slid out of my own clothes. Shirt tossed to the dresser. Jeans pooled at my feet. I shot her my best, cocky grin, then dropped my own boxers. I stood there for another ten-count, unreasonably satisfied by the way her eyes ran over my body. Pleased at how her gaze lingered on my full erection.

  “Can you handle it?” I teased.

  She drew in a breath. “No.”

  “Too bad.”

  I moved to the other side of the bed, lifted the sheets, and climbed in. I blew her an obnoxious kiss, then put my head on the pillow and closed my eyes. Aysia muttered something incomprehensible, and I felt the bed shift. I lifted one lid, just to make sure she was being careful. I watched as she hopped on one foot to the dresser, dragged open a drawer, and yanked out something shimmery. Her back was bare, the lace panties hugging her ass perfectly. I slammed my eyes shut.

  Stitches, I snapped at myself.

  Seconds later, the bed dipped down, and her scent filled my nose. Worse than that, her satin-covered ass filled my lap. She wriggled a little—just enough to drive my rigid cock into her back.

  “Good night, Marc,” she said sweetly.

  “Good night, Aysia,” I growled back.

  She went still and quiet so quickly that I thought she’d was asleep, but after another minute, she exhaled, and her voice carried to me in the dark once more. “You said I wasn’t your girl.”

  “To my dad?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well. You seem determined not to be.”

  “That’s not it at all.”

  “No?” I slung an arm over her and pulled her a little closer.

  “No,” she answered.

  “So you do want to be my girl?”

  “Don’t you know that I do?”

  “Maybe I do know,” I said. “But you wanting to and you willing to be are two different things, aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “But…”

  “But?”

  “I want to, Marc.”

  “Should I ask you, then?”

  “Yes, please.”

  I inhaled. “Aysia…will you be my girl?”

  “Yes, Marc.”

  “Good.”

  She went silent again, her breaths evening out. I pressed my chin to her head, and she didn’t stir. She was asleep for real this time. It was probably a good thing. Because my heart ached in a stupid fucking way.

  * * * *

  Aysia

  Thursday.

  Friday.

  Saturday.

  Sunday.

  Each morning I woke to an empty bed. And I felt it. The spot where Marc and his perfectly warm, perfectly hard, perfectly off-limits body had been. Somehow, he’d magically woken up before me each day.

  Admittedly Thursday was already a write-off. My leg was too sore to do much but make me complain. And to appreciate the fact that Marc had taken the day off, rescheduled whatever he’d been planning on doing with his parents, and was totally willing to play nursemaid. I couldn’t even muster up irritation at myself for needing him to help me in and out of bed. At the end of the day, I was t
otally worn out. And while sex might not have been the last thing on my mind, it wasn’t at the top, either. I was just as happy to fall asleep in his arms.

  On Friday, though, I’d rolled over expecting to help myself to a thorough groping. All I got was handful of air. When I dragged my ass out of the sheets and down the stairs with my leg aching—okay, maybe burning—I found Marc’s sister sitting at my breakfast bar. She had a crossword book in one hand and a muffin in the other. And she wasn’t the least bit perturbed by my cursing. She just shoved a cup of coffee and a painkiller my way, and told me sweetly that Marc had threatened to shave her head if anything happened to me while he was at work. So I was on house arrest. And when the king of temporary celibacy came home from work, he dragged out my collection of board games and wouldn’t let me sit in his lap no matter what I said to him. Apparently, strip Monopoly wasn’t a thing.

  Saturday and Sunday were no better.

  On the former morning, Marc made me an omelette. Served me orange juice. Reminded me to take my antibiotic and even did a load of laundry. But I couldn’t bait him into letting me have my way with him.

  On the latter morning, I thought I could outsmart him. I set my alarm on my phone for five in the morning, thinking there was no way Marc would be awake before that. But sometime in the middle of the night, a power surge hit the building. It did something funky to my phone settings, and the alarm never sounded. And for the first time in my life, I truly knew what men meant when they used the phrase “cock block.” Because the universe was giving me a royal one. Working in cahoots—yes, cahoots, dammit—with Marc to screw me over by keeping me from actually getting screwed.

  Stupid Thursday.

  Ridiculous Friday.

  Damn-it-all-to-hell Saturday.

  And Sunday could just plain bite me.

  He just as effectively deflected me each night, too. Showering so long that I fell asleep. Telling me he needed to cuddle his girl, and being all sweet and making me look bad for wanting to tear off his clothes instead.

  So when Monday rolled around, I really expected to find my bed empty again. Instead, as I sighed and stretched a little, I slammed into Marc’s solid form. It startled me so badly that I skidded forward and just about fell off. His hand came out at the last second to snag my pajama top and drag me back.

  “Don’t need you injuring yourself again right before we go to the doctor,” he said, his voice thick with sleep.