DAIR (19 page)

She leaned forward, pressing my tense head to her soft bosom.
 

I shut my eyes tight.

The image of me putting my ravenous self on her wounded self was a crystal clear picture in my head.
 

Obsessively, repetitively, day and night, asleep or awake, I pictured this.
 

It was very nearly too much to bear; this voracious, prodigious need of mine.
   

I’d not gone through a celibate stage like this since I’d become sexually active, back in my teens.
 
In the beginning of our relationship, when Bianca had left me, I’d come close, but this spell had since outlasted that one.
   

It was an ordeal.
 

I jerked off at least five times a day, to cope with the readjustment, but it was about as satisfactory as eating cardboard instead of steak.
     

My traitorous hands moved to grip the bare backs of her thighs, keeping her leaning against me.
 

After one inflamed, torturous moment, I tore myself away.
 

She let me go, moving back to her seat.
 

I looked at her, making my gaze go to the bandaged side of her face, which I usually avoided, but not now, because I needed that reminder of why I had to put her needs before my own.
 

Her injury was still dressed from the latest round of reconstructive surgery, covering one side of her face from cheekbone to jaw.
 

It was a sobering sight, not because it was grisly, in fact I couldn’t even see the actual wound, it was covered so thoroughly, but because it was a stark and clear reminder of what had almost happened.

That reminder was dampening, which was what I needed at the moment.
 

I finished eating, and Bianca quietly excused herself.
   

I knew where she was going, and I forced myself to move in the opposite direction.
 

If I followed her to her painting studio, watched her work on and around a canvas in that fucking dress, I’d surely snap, and lose all restraint.

She was not recovered enough for my unrestrained self.
 

I tried not to follow her, to hover, as that was not what she wanted, but it was a constant struggle against myself not to check in on her.

Instead, I took up residence in my home office and attempted to work.
 

That lasted all of thirty seconds.
 

That fast and my mind was wandering back to her, and back to the image of my ravenous self on her recovering self, and I recalled rather urgently that I was do for another jerk off session.
 

I had just pulled my erection from the oppressive confines of my pants when my office door opened with no preamble.

This was unusual.
 
Bianca never came to my office.
   

She stepped inside, then shut the door behind her, not looking even slightly surprised at what I’d been up to, while I found myself flushing in embarrassment.

Her eyes were unflinching on mine as she approached.
 

I’d pushed my chair back from the desk in preparation for my after dinner jerk session.
 
There was enough space between for her to fit.
 

She did, facing me and leaning back until her ass was perched right on the edge.

Our gazes never wavered as, at the bottom of my vision, she lifted her wispy little dress up to bare herself.
 

With a sigh of defeat, I let myself look, but only for the briefest moment.
 

No panties, as I’d suspected.
 

My eyes, as they returned to hers, were pleading now.
   

I couldn’t fight her
and
myself.
 

Myself was bad enough, but I’d never been
any
match for
her
.
 

Not for one lovesick second since the first time I’d set eyes on her.

“You need more recovery time, Love,” I told her, voice desperate, heart pounding.
 

“Shh,” she soothed, holding her arms out for me.
 

With a shudder, I moved into her, sliding my chair close between her legs.
 
I rested my cheek on her soft, bare thigh and attempted and
failed
to hold onto any vague shred of my once dependable control.