Authors: Robin Gideon
What would it be this morning? Ham and eggs, with
fried potatoes on the side? Yes, Garrett enjoys that.
But
perhaps before eating he’ll want to wash up a bit.
He’d
complained of needing a bath the last time he’d awakened.
Pamela set about putting water on to heat. As she did
this simple task, she thought of what the future
held. Not much, she sadly concluded. However much she
hated Angie Darwell, the fact of the matter was the woman
was dead on the mark about her superior standing in
Garrett’s world. Pamela had been granted this time alone with
Garrett to tend to his cracked ribs and his battered body,
but these circumstances would never be repeated.
Don’t think about it,
Pamela told herself. Since she could not change the past, and had little control over the future,
she would make the most of these days with Garrett. And
watching his extraordinarily rapid recovery, she knew she
had best savor every second because soon her time with
him would run out. The voters demanded a mayor, and
they wouldn’t accept one without a wife, but that wife
had to be from the right family, from the right class.
Pamela filled a large kettle with the heated water, tossed
a wash towel in along with a cake of soap, placed a drying
towel over her shoulder, and then returned to the bedroom.
Garrett was still on his back, a hand now resting lightly on
his ribs.
“Good morning,” Pamela whispered, not entirely certain
whether he was awake.
“Morning. I’m not so sure how good it is,” Garrett said with a
groan. Then
he opened his eyes and smiled. “The ribs are throbbing a little, that’s all. Doc Jamison said that would
happen when they started to mend. It’s a good sign.”
“Yes, a good sign.” Pamela’s words came out little more than a whisper. “How criminal it is that your beautiful, powerful body should be so senselessly damaged. Why, Garrett? Why would anyone do this to you?”
“Kind of hard on the eyes?”
“Not at all. I love looking at you. It’s just that when I see you in pain, I feel it here.” She put a hand over her heart.
She set the kettle down on the floor then sat very cautiously at the edge of the bed. With Garrett’s broken ribs, any unnecessary movement had to be avoided.
“I’ll be able to get up today,” Garrett said.
“No, you won’t. Not for at least a week. Doctor’s orders.”
Garrett growled his disapproval. “What do doctors know?”
“About broken ribs? More than a lawyer, I’m afraid. Besides, I promised your brother I wouldn’t let you out of bed. Now, you don’t want to make me a liar to your brother, do you?”
“Paul can be a bit on the dictatorial side, can’t he?”
Pamela squeezed out the washcloth then worked in a rich, soapy lather with the bar of soap Paul had provided. “Let’s
get you cleaned up a bit.”
“I can do that myself,” Garrett replied quickly, as though his independence had
suddenly been challenged.
He reached for the cloth, but when Pamela pulled away
from him, he moved his arms too quickly. Stabbing pain
from the broken ribs on his left side shot through him, and he clenched his teeth to keep from crying out.
“Don’t fight me,” she said sternly, her green gaze boring angrily into Garrett. “Now just lie back and, for once in your life, do as you’re told.”
“Yes, Nurse Pamela,” Garrett said with thick sarcasm as she
began soaping up his right arm, then wiping the soap away
with the
warm,
wet washcloth.
She washed his face, neck, chest, and arms, enjoying
herself immensely as she chatted with Garrett about incon
sequential things. She adjusted the bandage above his left
eye so it no longer interfered with his vision, then
she leaned away. What remained to be washed was be
neath the blankets, and Pamela wasn’t at all certain how he
would react to that.
“I think I can do the rest. I’ve been bathing
myself without the help of a nanny for a couple of months
now.”
“I’m not listening to you,” Pamela replied as she brought
the blanket down to the foot of the bed.
For an instant, her breath caught in her throat. Garrett
was completely naked. She had known this, so it shouldn’t
have struck so sharply. But seeing him now, awake and
in control of himself,
was different from looking at his naked body
while he was sleeping or unconscious.
“This is silly,” Garrett said.
He started to sit up, but the moment his shoulders got
more than a few inches off the mattress, fresh pain knifed
through him from the damaged ribs. He lay down again, his breathing ragged, his features distorted with the strain
.
“It’s silly pretending you’re not in agony.” Pamela pursed
her lips into an angry, tight line. “Now stop hurting your
self. I hate seeing you do that.”
Garrett closed his eyes, breathing softly, evenly, clearly waiting
for the pain to subside. “It’s not the pain that bothers me
so much, it’s the feeling of uselessness, of needing your help just to wash myself.”
Pamela began washing Garrett’s feet. Now that he’d reclined
and was motionless once again, she could enjoy the do
mesticity of what she was doing. Still, she remained aware
of Garrett’s richly sensual nakedness.
“You should just accept my help,” she said as she lath
ered Garrett’s right thigh. “Often people have needed your aid against Jonathon Darwell, but you’ve not taken a cent for
it. Now it’s time for you to let someone do something nice
for you. Don’t fight me. It’s only fair. You have to learn to receive as well as give.”
Garrett closed his eyes, letting the impact of Pamela’s words
sink in. On only a few times in his life had he ever felt
quite this helpless. Once was during a severe case of influenza
when he was a young man, and another time was when he’d
had what the doctor suspected was a case of food poison
ing and was wretchedly sick for eighteen hours.
“Yes,” he said quietly, his eyes closed. “Time to relax and let the body heal.”
He felt her hands on his penis, soft and warm, slip
pery with water and soap. Nothing sexual about it, Garrett told himself.
Nothing sexual at all
. No reason at all to be
embarrassed—and no reason to respond. No reason at all to respond like a man when one of the world’s truly vi
vacious, earthy women was working her hands along the shaft of his cock
in a manner that, in other circumstances, could only be
considered blatantly, openly, even aggressively, sexual.
He toyed with opening his eyes then banished that
thought. Any hope he had of not responding to Pamela’s touch
was predicated on his ability to not look at her. If he did
open his eyes, if he saw her, examined her beauty, perhaps
even watched her soapy hands on his cock, all
hope of calm detachment would be lost.
There are words that could be spoken,
he thought then.
Perhaps some light, teasing banter to shatter the tension that now seemed to have taken all the air from the small
room. Yes, some silly little joke that Pamela would be mildly
annoyed at.
If Garrett was trying to control himself, Pamela intended that he fail. She wanted to destroy whatever calm he sought. With the washcloth, she wiped away the soap
suds she had worked over him. Very slowly and with in
finite care, she cleaned Garrett’s cock then curled her fingers
around his shaft, squeezing lightly, gently. She felt him move
in her hand, very subtly at first, almost imperceptibly, then
with increasing force. His lifeblood coursed into him,
making his cock stretch and grow, thicken, pulsing with virility.
A deep, throaty sigh escaped her as she watched his burgeoning erection expand under her touch, responding to
her even though it was apparent that he had not wanted to do so.
With the towel, she patted Garrett dry, but by this time,
his erection had reached full dimensions, and all pretense
on his part that he was passively being washed had been abandoned.
“Pamela, as much as I would like to, I don’t really think
I can make love with you, at least not with the energy that
is necessary,” he said quietly, his eyes still closed. There
was an edge of anger in his tone, as though he was blaming
himself for not being able to satisfy her.
“I know that, darling,” Pamela whispered in response, her voice husky with escalating passion.
“This
time, you must not think of my pleasure.”
“But—”
She put a finger to his lips. “Shhh,” she shushed. “There’s nothing for you to say.”
But there was much for Garrett to say. He was a man of
more than considerable experience with women, and though he’d certainly allowed himself to be passively pleased by a woman before, he had always been a man who believed
in reciprocity. A
quid pro quo
approach to sexuality made
him determined to satisfy his partner while demanding
satisfaction for himself. Now, his broken ribs howling in protest with each breath he took, the slightest movements
of his arms reminding him of where boots had struck or ham-sized fists had battered him, Garrett knew he could
not give as good as he would receive—certainly not with
his split and swollen lips.
“You’re fighting it,” Pamela whispered, her hand moving slowly over his erection
. “Don’t fight it…relax…
and enjoy.” Her voice was a soft, sultry purr as she shifted
her position on the bed so that she was sitting a little lower
now, closer to his knees. “You don’t always have to be the one in charge.”
Garrett’s hands were at his sides, and he had to con
sciously loosen his fingers to release the blankets that he’d balled up in his fists.
He opened his eyes just a little to look at her. She smiled
softly at him, her every movement, every gesture, languid,
indolent, natural, as though she’d done this a thousand times.
“There now,” Pamela whispered, smiling but in command.
“I can see in your eyes that you’re a little more relaxed,
more at ease.” She leaned forward slowly, her gaze locked
with Garrett’s, and kissed his chest. “You’ve had a difficult
time. Let me take care of you.”
She flicked the tip of her tongue against his flat nipple,
and his sudden intake of breath pleased her. He bunched the blankets at his sides again in his fists. Pamela released her hold on his shaft then took his forearm in both hands and began kneading the tension-knotted muscles firmly.
“What did I tell you?” she asked in a faux scolding tone. “I
told you to relax, didn’t I?”