Thumper by Marie James

Chapter 31

Cara

I stare at the door from several feet away, my thumbnail in my mouth as I contemplate my next action.

It’s a private matter. I have no business listening or getting involved.

Masturbation is natural, something it took me a long time to accept after I left Knight Salvation. The teachings of Charles’s church always told us self-pleasure was a sin, and the gates of heaven would slam closed if we engaged in such actions.

Still, seven years later, I still feel guilty every time I touch myself, resisting it as long as I possibly can.

I shake my head, pulling my thumb from my lips and shaking both arms at my side. I feel like my skin is too tight, like I’m going to pop from the pressure building under my skin and moving around doesn’t help. My legs want to carry me to the door, urging me to press my ear to the wood and listen.

But that would be a violation of his privacy, so I cross the room and drop into the recliner Apollo was nice enough to bring in here for me. My body groans in irritation. I wouldn’t be surprised if the outline of my frame isn’t carved into the soft surface since I’ve spent most of the last day and a half curled up in the damn thing.

“Just breathe,” I tell myself, my eyes closing as I take long, deep breaths.

I feel guilty for even thinking of him in a sexual manner. Am I betraying my own pain and trauma by being turned on right now? Is it narcissistic of me to think he may want me too? An erection during a bed bath isn’t a new concept. Any stimulation can cause that.

“Cara.”

I snap to attention, my ears perking up because I’m not sure if I actually heard his voice or if I’ve fabricated my desires.

“Cara.”

I jump up from the recliner, crossing the room in record time. I press my ear to the door.

“Javier? Did you need me?” My voice is husky, and I pray he can’t hear the desire in it. It would be wrong to take advantage of this situation. “I mean are you okay? Do you need help?”

“I can’t get back up.”

“Is it okay if I come in?”

“Can you help me from out there?” The question is laced with sarcasm not humor, and my hand hesitates on the doorknob.

I know he hates asking for help. Strong men like him, especially ones that are normally the ones doing the helping, aren’t too keen when it comes to asking for things for themselves.

I straighten my spine, remind myself one last time that I’m here to help, and promise to keep things professional. I’m not new to this, and I feel like I’ve had to remind myself of that fact way too many times.

“I’m coming in,” I warn as I turn the doorknob, my eyes on his face, and that’s all it takes for me to gain control.

He looks absolutely drained. The paleness of his face is a testament to the pain he’s in.

“Don’t say it,” he mutters.

“It was too soon.”

“That’s still an I told you so.”

“You can’t heal if you keep exhausting yourself. You need to rest. I told you I didn’t mind giving you another bed—”

“Fuck, don’t mention the bed bath.” He shifts, his hands covering the apex of his thighs.

“How far did you get in your shower?”

He looks away from me.

“Your hair isn’t even wet.”

“I couldn’t reach the back of my arms or my lower legs, but it’s fine. I’m clean enough.”

“If you’re in here, it might as well be done.” I step closer.

“Can you please get me something to cover myself with?”

“I’m a nur—”

“Cara,” he growls, and the sound of my name in that manner doesn’t make me want to shrink away from him in fear. I don’t know when those tables turned in his favor.

“Okay,” I say, grateful for the reprieve grabbing a washcloth from under the sink gives me.

“That’s not going to be enough,” he says, looking a little embarrassed. “Maybe a hand towel.”

Some color returns to his face when I look down at the washcloth in my hands.

“Sure.” I drop the washcloth in the sink and grab a hand towel before returning.

I hand it to him, turning to adjust the spray of the water while he situates it on his lap.

“Let’s wash your hair first and then I can get those spots you missed.”

He grumbles something low under his breath, but I ignore his irritation.

I detach the showerhead and change the water flow until it’s more like a soft spray than the near violent one it was set to previously.

“Lean your head back, close your eyes. Crap,” I hiss when he sways on the chair. “Hold on to me.”

“Cara, I—”

“Right here,” I say, lifting one arm and placing it on my side.

His fingers curl immediately as he lifts his other hand to the opposite side. His head leans forward, eyes blinking up at me, and for a long second, I’m lost in his gaze. I can picture his handsome face, void of all the cuts and bruising it has now, but I’d be a liar if I said he still isn’t just as handsome as he was before. He fought a battle and won, and that’s a damn sexy look on him.

I clear my throat. “Okay, let’s try again.”

His eyes close, head slowly moving back, and his grip tightens on my sides. I move through the routine of wetting, soaping, and lathering his hair, my body trembling when he groans as my fingernails scrape over his scalp.

“Do you have injuries up here, too?” I ask. “I can’t determine the cause of that sound.”

“It just feels really good.”

I smile as I start to rinse even though he can’t see it, but it falls away when he flexes his arms, the movement drawing me closer. The insides of his thighs brush the outside of my legs, and I look down at the contact.

Big mistake.

I know what he did in here earlier. The sound was unmistakable, but he either didn’t finish or he has an amazing recovery time. The hand towel on his lap doesn’t do much to conceal the erection he’s sporting.

“Ignore it,” he says, and my eyes snap back down to his.

“Oh, shit. Sorry.”

I pull the showerhead away because I was distracted and didn’t notice him lifting his head. Water was pouring down his face.

“It’s fine.” He licks away some of the water, and my body stands up and takes notice.

I blame the heat of the humidity swarming around us for the flush on my skin.

“Y-you said the backs of your arms and lower legs?” I ask, my voice a few octaves higher than normal. “What about your back?”

“Couldn’t reach it,” he says, his hands dropping from my waist when I take a step back.

“I’ll get it.”

He watches me, his eyes like lasers on my skin as I lather up the sponge. The backs of his arms are no chore but squatting to reach his lower legs brings me right at crotch level, and I have to swallow and look away quickly.

“Now your back,” I say as I stand, only assessing the situation makes me frown.

The way the shower chair is tucked into the corner, there’s really no way to clean him fully without leaning over him. If he wasn’t so adamant that not washing the areas he couldn’t reach were fine, I’d think this was a setup.

Stepping in closer, I reach behind him. Javier doesn’t hesitate to lift his hands back to my hips, only this time he takes it a step further, leaning closer and resting his head against my stomach.

This is nothing like the millions of work showers I’ve given. At work, the chairs the residents sit on have bars around three sides to prevent them from toppling over. The one Javier is in is nothing more than a stool.

I should be embarrassed for the length of time I spend washing his back. In my head, I blame the slow circles and attention to detail on the mottled skin and my reluctance to cause him any more pain.

I step back once again before grabbing the sprayer to rinse him off completely. He doesn’t say a word when I turn the water off and grab towels.

The process is slow and gentle and not filled with an ounce of ulterior motives. I have to pat dry each cut, making sure not to apply too much pressure. I dry his hair, arms, back, and chest, before getting most of his legs, and he holds the towel to his pelvic area as I help him stand.

We’re chest to chest as he dries those intimate areas, and I do my best not to groan with need when the back of his hand brushes against my body. He’s able to manage getting the towel around his waist and knotting it at the front, but the movement destabilizes him. I grab for him, but don’t manage in time before his back presses to the shower wall.

“Shit. Are you okay?”

When he doesn’t answer, I look up at him, insanely aware that my body is flush against his.

“Never been better,” he whispers, one hand on my waist, the other inching up to cup my jaw.

He’s going to kiss me. I can see the intent in his eyes. My brain registers it, but it’s like my body is short-circuiting. I don’t make a single move to back away.

His tongue traces his lower lip a second before his mouth meets mine, his fingers gripping hard on my hip, a sharp contrast to the gentle touch on my face.

It isn’t a peck on the lips, a sign of gratitude for helping him. It’s pure fire and heat, his tongue not hesitating to lick into my mouth. I only thought I was needy. This kiss sparks a desperate urgency inside of me.

I gasp when he pulls me closer, the length of him pressing into my belly, and I’ve never regretted a sound more in my life. It doesn’t cause him to take things further but to pull his head back, breaking contact with my mouth.

I have to clear my throat and step away.

“Think you can make it back to the bed?”

He looks down at me as if some sort of other suggestion is on his mind, but he doesn’t speak the words.

My mouth is dry the entire time it takes us to get him back to the bed. We have to ignore that kiss and his body’s reaction while I help him into a pair of sweats. Helping him lie down is just as much an exercise as walking him in here.

When he grabs my hand before I can step away, I expect him to say something, to invite me to lie beside him or something suggestive, but he clears his throat and releases me.

I give him two pain pills and a bottle of water before heading back into the bathroom to clean up the towels, washcloth, and that damn hand towel. My mind is full of things I shouldn’t even be thinking about, but I can’t help where my mind wanders in the still steamy room.

Will we ever talk about that kiss? Was it one of gratitude, or was it a hint of something more?

His eyes are closed when I come back out into the room, and they don’t even flutter when I readjust the blanket over his body. I turn off the bedroom light and curl up in the recliner, my eyes locked on his face the entire time.

I feel antsy, the events of the day keeping me awake. His sleep schedule is off due to the meds he’s taking around the clock, and my body still hasn’t adjusted from the long days and nights in El Salvador. Exhaustion doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel, but I can’t seem to get comfortable. It’s more need than anything else that prevents me from sleeping and even rubbing my thighs together doesn’t abate the demands I’m suffering from.

I jolt when Javier’s hand pats the bed. He doesn’t say anything, and his eyes remain closed for the longest time.

“Come on,” he says, his hand patting the bed beside him. “Your tossing and turning is preventing me from sleeping.”

It’s the invitation I was hoping for earlier, but I still hesitate at the offer.

“We both need the rest.”

His eyes stay closed this entire time, and it’s as if he knows I wouldn’t be able to do it if he were watching me.

Several long minutes pass, and I stand. I figure he’s finally fallen asleep, but he moves his hand immediately to his side when I climb on the bed.

Maybe the comfort of the mattress in place of the chair will be exactly what I need to finally get some real rest.