For Her Own Good

by Parker, Tamsen

  Frowning and looking miserable, she blinks up at me. “The entire right side of my body hurts.”

  I can imagine. And I can imagine the ugly black and blues she’s going to have tomorrow, and how sore she’s going to be. What I’d like to do is wrap her up in a blanket and take her onto my lap, rocking her to sleep while I convince myself she’s okay because I can feel her steady heartbeat and the rise and fall of her breath. But there’s no way she would stand for that, even when she’s beat. Since that’s not allowed, I’ll try something else. There are several throw pillows on hand that I pile onto one end of the couch.

  “What if you lean up against this with your left side? That should take some pressure off your right side.”

  She tries it, arranging the pillows, but still looks like she might burst into tears from pain and frustration.

  “Not working?”

  She shakes her head and tries to burrow into the pile. It’s adorably pathetic, like a bunny trying to make a nest in leaves. She would hate that I felt that way, though, so I toss that idea, along with the pillows, and take their places at the far side of the couch, resting my arm along the top and patting the seat beside me.

  “Come here. You can lean on me. Come on, before you lose consciousness.”

  She regards me for a blink, clearly trying to determine if she has enough energy to fight me on this, but then decides no and scoots closer, snuggling into my side to rest her head on my shoulder. At first she keeps her arm curled into her chest like a bird’s broken wing, but eventually thinks better of it and snakes it around my waist, sighing when she lets the tension go.

  “Better?” My voice is half a croak and I hope she doesn’t notice.

  She nods into my chest and makes a small “mmm” noise, and then next thing I know, her hand is curled into my shirt and she’s breathing the perfectly regular and soft beats of sleep. Me? I will not be sleeping anytime soon. Even if I didn’t want to stay awake so I wouldn’t inadvertently move and hurt her, be ready should she need anything, I’d want to savor this. How could I possibly sleep when there’s something so precious and fleeting to be enjoyed?

  Chapter 11

  Starla

  I was having the very best dream about cuddling with Lowry, and now I’m awake. While I do appear to be curled into his side and resting my head on his chest, I also hurt. All over. Worth it, maybe, if the result of my injuries means I get to be this close to him. On him.

  He’s as solid as I’d ever hoped, and it’s heavenly to get to inhale him with every breath. But it’s the middle of the night, and I’m not going to do either of us any favors by sleeping through the night like this. As much as I might like to stay here, like this, forever and ever, I should get up. I try to be sneaky and sort of slither my way away from him, but there’s a rumble in his chest as I try.

  “I’m not asleep, Star. You don’t have to be sneaking about.”

  Of course he wouldn’t be asleep. I’ve been sprawled on him and probably snoring and drooling, and he’s endured every moment of it because he’s a nice person. That’s fan-fucking-tastic.

  I do my best to sit up in a graceful manner, but I feel like the Tin Man left out in the rain overnight: rusty and stiff. Though I definitely have a heart and it’s beating quick from Lowry calling me Star. Lots of people have, it’s an incredibly obvious nickname, but he’s never done that. I’ve always been Starla, always. Does this mean—

  No, I shouldn’t read anything into this. It’s late and he’s tired, and the extra syllable was too much effort. I get it.

  Once I’m upright-ish, it’s becomes obvious why I was leaning over like that—it fucking hurts to put any weight at all on my right side. To relieve the pressure, I try to stand but that was, like, whoa, too fast. Dizziness swirls my brain and I sway. And then, again, Lowry is coming to my rescue, standing in front of me and resting his big hands on my waist.

  “Not so fast. You’re going to take another tumble and you’ll be sorry for that.”

  I’m sorry already. The dizziness dissipates, but I’m still feeling lightheaded and queasy. I use a hand on Lowry’s arm to steady myself and focus on his face. His tone had been easy, but his expression is one of genuine concern. My god, am I a disaster human. And I have once again asked too much of him. Though I’d like to curl my fingers around his biceps for hours, test and measure his strength, that is a thing I absolutely cannot do. So I yank my hand away as though he’s a hot stove. He could, in fact, burn me.

  “You should go home. You have patients tomorrow and I’m fine. I mean, maybe I’ll have some more whisky, but otherwise, yeah. Fine. And if you’re worried about me being alone, I’ll call Holden.”

  Holden mostly manages my bills and the finances of the business, but he also takes me to and from ECT. He’s my employee, but sometimes being my PA constitutes some kind of weird shit. Coming to sleep on my couch because I fell down some steps won’t be the worst thing I’ve ever asked him to do, not by a long shot.

  “I’ll tell you what. How about I’ll stay until you figure out a way to lie down that’s comfortable enough for you to actually fall asleep and then I’ll go. But I can’t in good conscience leave you standing here knowing it took you several tries to find a good way to sit on the couch.”

  Maybe I should ask him to sleep in my bed since that seemed to do the trick for being reasonably not in pain on the couch, but I don’t relish the idea of the horrified look I’d get in response. Yep, really don’t need that.

  “Fine. Whatever.”

  I move carefully away from the couch, completely mortified that Lowry is following close behind, probably with his arms out in case I fall over again. Could I be any more of a mess? Really wish poise were something I could buy.

  Looking at my bed is a bit daunting, though. Lowry must sense my hesitation because he walks past me and pulls the covers back. I’ve always liked the way a million pillows look on people’s beds, but when I tried that they all ended up on the floor and stayed there, so now the only decorative one I keep is a BB-8 pillow.

  Lowry’s a nice person though, so he doesn’t comment on my childish decor, just moves the adorable white and orange droid to the side.

  “How do you usually sleep? On your back? Side?”

  “Stomach.” Unless there’s someone to spoon me, which I will not bring up.

  “Right, then.” His brow does that sexy furrow thing and he looks like he’s trying to work out some kind of complex equation. “Do you have a side of the bed? Or do you sleep in the middle?”

  “Do you have a side of the bed?”

  Dammit. Exhaustion is making me ask questions I have no business asking.

  “I do. Only because Maeve liked to be on the right. I still sleep on the left, even though we haven’t shared a bed for years. Funny, the things that become habits.” He shrugs as though that’s not a weird thing for me to have asked.

  “It, um, probably makes more sense for me to sleep on the right side. Since I’ll have to sleep on my left side, and I like facing the edge.”

  “Okay. In you get, then.”

  He folds the covers down farther and I slip in, careful to lie on my left side. I’m going to flop over though, I know it, and wake myself up with a start. I’m about to tell him so when he holds up a finger. “Not done yet.”

  He grabs the pillow I’m not resting my head on, fluffs it, and then places it in front of my legs before holding out BB-8. I take the little droid and hug him to my chest, leaning over onto him and hiking a bent leg onto the pillow. Not bad, which is better than I have any right to expect given how much my body hurts.

  “Does that feel all right? I know it doesn’t feel good, but hopefully less bad?”

  I nod as much as I’m able and…I don’t know. I should be mortified by this and I am, but it also feels weirdly good. To have someone care for me, fuss over me, arrange my goddamn pillows so I’ll be as comfortable as possible. Makes me feel small and squishy and needy and full of wanting. Wanting to ask h
im to stay the night. Not because I have any reason to worry, but because I just fucking want someone here, okay?

  Someone to get me some Tylenol, someone to bring me water, someone to brush the hair off my forehead and ask how I’m feeling. I want these things and I want them from Lowry, but I can’t bear to ask for them so all I do is roll my lips between my teeth.

  * * *

  Lowry

  Christ, her eyes. And the way she’s clutching that fucking pillow. If only I could replace that pillow with my head. Give her something to focus on other than the pain. Perhaps by gathering up that pajama top until her breasts were exposed and then spending rather a lot of time with them. Licking, kneading, squeezing, suckling—figuring out what she likes.

  Wouldn’t go any further than that because I wouldn’t want to hurt her. Could she come from that? I’d enjoy trying to make her. And if not, perhaps she’s got a vibrator in one of those bedside table drawers. I wouldn’t be able to fuck her to orgasm without causing the bad kind of pain, but I bet I could use one of her top-drawer friends to do the trick.

  What does she look like when she comes?

  That isn’t what I should be thinking about when I’m supposed to be getting her settled into bed after she’s been through a traumatic event. But the way she’s looking at me… I have got to get out of here. Because if I don’t leave now, I’ll try to talk my way into staying, and that’s not okay. Not tonight of all nights. She’s hurt, she’s vulnerable, it wouldn’t be right. Way more than it’s already not right, which is not an inconsiderable amount.

  “I…I should be going. But can I get you anything before I leave? Something to eat? Glass of water?”

  “My enemies encased in carbonite?”

  The smile on her face is killer. Sweet and mischievous, it makes me not want to leave, but stay. Get on my knees beside her bed, take her face in my hands and kiss her silly. Thread my fingers through her hair close to her scalp and twist enough that she feels the pull. In my mind, she’d gasp but then melt, surrender to me, make little pleading noises, and Christ…

  “If you like, though I’m sure in a couple of days you’ll be able to acquire those yourself.”

  She rolls her eyes but I really do have that much faith in her.

  “There is one thing.”

  Please, God, let it be me. She needs me. Wants me to stay, wants me to be here for her today and always, trusts me to maybe not take all the pain away but make things as easy for her as they can be. I’m choked by all the things I wish she would say, and barely get out, “And what’s that?”

  She wrenches her mouth to the side and her cheeks pink. “I can’t reach… Could you… The covers?”

  Sweet mother Mary, the woman is being asked to be tucked in. Why this should send a flood of arousal through me… I don’t want to think too closely about that, because I suspect I know why but I don’t want to admit it. It dances too closely to something that makes me nauseated. Fuck.

  My voice is probably overly gruff as I tell her, “Aye. Course.” I don’t mean for it to be, but my head is buzzing and I’m fighting off the urge to do far more than tuck her in. Not tonight, of course, because she’s hurt and I would never want to cause her pain. The bad kind of pain at any rate, because perhaps she’d like to be spanked. The way her leg is draped over the pillow makes the curve of her bottom so… What would it be like to take her over my knee? To have her glance over her shoulder, pleading look in her eyes, and promise to be a good girl. Why can I not get these ideas, these images out of my head when I’m around her?

  Before my head explodes, I need to get out of here. Before I do, though, I finish pulling the covers over her, all the way up to her chin and she smiles when I do.

  “Thank you.”

  And then my hand, my goddamn hand, which seems to have a mind of its own or is perhaps more closely wired to the animal part of my brain that only thinks about what it wants and not about what’s wise, reaches out and runs through her hair. Her mouth opens, forms a near-perfect O, same as her wide eyes, and for a split second before I’m horrified at what I’ve done, it makes the desire so much worse. It’s as though it’s all I’m made of, all I have.

  “Please do call Holden to be around if you need something. And if he’s not able…even if he is…I am, I am always here for you, and I expect you to call if you need me. I will be here, no questions asked. For anything. That’s not an offhand promise, and you know that, so please do take advantage, if you need.”

  Shut up, you lovesick puppy masquerading as a responsible man.

  “Good night, Starla.”

  “Good night, Lowry.”

  Somehow I make it out of her studio, down the hall, to the ground floor where I stumble out into the freezing night air, but even that doesn’t cut my lust. I don’t know that anything is capable of doing that.

  But as I tell my patients over and over, it’s not about your feelings. Feelings are always valid. You’re permitted to feel however you do. What matters, though, is what you do with those feelings. How you apply logic and empathy and the general rules that govern a so-called civilized society. That is what matters.

  It is not my feelings for Starla, the impulses I have toward her, that are the problem. I’m just a man; I can’t help the things that spring from my imagination any more than any other human can. What I can do is protect her from those, keep them buried like unexploded munitions. Though as anyone who’s ever lived near a war zone can tell you, that ordnance is far from harmless and can detonate at any time.

  The subway is stifling with the overworked heating of the HVAC. Perhaps it would have been better for me to walk home, even if it had taken hours. At least that way I would have exhausted myself, given myself something to focus on other than images of Starla from tonight. But no, they’re still vivid in my mind. And continue to be as I walk from my T stop to my building and until I walk through my door.

  All I can see is her. Eyes and soft curves, teeth sinking into a plump bottom lip, expanses of skin even though I did my damnedest not to look at her when she needed help with her top. At least I kept from audibly groaning. Thank God for small favors. Though a bigger favor would have been her sleeping through the night, resting on me. That was more than I could ever ask for, yet still not nearly enough.

  Inside my own home, still a relatively bland and sparse bachelor apartment, I can’t escape her. There’s nothing here that interests me more than her, and restlessness prowls in my chest. I wish there were a way to get rid of this feeling, to be less obsessive. I could try meditating, but in this state, it would only result in meditating on her, which wouldn’t be any better.

  But…

  Would it truly be the worst thing to get myself off to thoughts of her? Would it make being around her easier or harder? I know how she feels now, the weight of her in my lap. Too, I know the maddening worry and hands-raking-through-hair torment of waiting for a verdict on whether or not she’s all right. Perhaps selfishly, I’d rather focus on the former. She hadn’t gotten up when she’d come to earlier. Wisely, I’d say. But she could have demanded I put her down. She didn’t.

  Can I think of her willingly cradled on my lap and looking up at me as though she trusts me to keep her safe? May I pretend she’d allow me to see her vulnerable and understand I don’t resent her soft spots but treasure them?

  It’s not that I want her weak. She’s not. Anyone who thinks so is completely daft. But everyone needs help sometimes, everyone needs a shoulder to cry on, a hand to help them up when they get knocked down, a safe haven when the world is a fucking awful place. I want to be those things for her, be worthy of her most tender thoughts and feelings.

  I’m not the physically strongest man; I’d fight for her without question if it came to it, but that’s not where my strengths lie. I do like to think I’m responsible, measured, can shoulder a considerable psychic burden, would let her be carefree to the extent that she wishes it because I could handle everything she didn’t want to, or couldn�
�t bear. Wouldn’t my head and my heart swell if I could have those things from her?

  To what extent are those desires intertwined with the thoughts I’ve had about her before—the ones where she calls me daddy, the ones where she bites the pad of a finger and gazes at me from under her lashes with those doe eyes, the ones where it’s not a single item of her outfit that’s darling but all of it?

  It’s a lot. More than I can parse, more than I can handle. How can I want these things, how can I want her like this, but also be so terrified of my own desires? It’s not the same as if she were still my patient, still a girl instead of a woman, and yet it’s hard for me to logic my way out of this as it’s all part of my relationship with her, part and parcel of what makes her both my basest and most precious desire.

  Because the truth is I did want these things from her back then. I did. And doesn’t that make me the kind of man who’s always turned my stomach? Don’t those desires make me the worst kind of vile?

  Or do they?

  I left, didn’t I? Didn’t take the things I wanted though she may have been willing to hand them to me. I had convinced myself that all of those feelings were bad and wrong but perhaps they weren’t. Oh, acting on them would have been. I’d’ve wanted to slit my own throat for that had I taken action other than leaving.

  But she’s not eighteen anymore. She’s thirty-three, and that hasn’t slaked my thirst for her, hasn’t changed the feelings I have toward her. If anything, the craving has grown. Sharpened in a way I wasn’t expecting, and every time there’s a hint of it, it’s another pass over the whetstone.

  There’s more, too, always more. I’d like to discipline her, whether for real or as a game. Whatever she’d agreed to. Not only have her sit in my lap, but turn her over my knee and scold her. Or perhaps she wouldn’t need scolding, just a reminder that she’s mine, and if I’d like to spank her bottom, then I will. For my pleasure and hers as well.