Lean on Me
Page 40
He gave her another of those frowns and then headed into the kitchen. She heard the sound of drawers and cupboards opening and closing. Scooting down, she leaned her head back against the arm of the couch and tried to identify the weird feeling running through her. Contentment?
She had a pissed off Dom in her small apartment, her whole body hurt like hell, and she felt content?
Idiota. Happy idiota.
Señor returned, wrapping her dishtowel around a large plastic bag filled with ice. He settled it on her ankle.
“Thank you.”
A grunt was her only acknowledgement. He prowled across the living room, his size dwarfing the furniture, making the ceiling feel low. Pulling her favorite armchair over to the couch, he sat down next to her. After examining the gash on her face again, he tapped the hospital ID band on her wrist. “You went to the emergency room. How did you get there, and how did you get home?”
The stubborn little tiger gave Cullen a look as if he lacked any brains whatsoever. “I drove.”
As his anger increased, his teeth ground together so hard they should have shattered. She drove. And acted as if everyone drove themselves to the ER and back. “Wasn't it difficult to use the pedals?” Considering she'd sprained her right ankle.
“I used my left foot.” She shifted on the couch to look at him better. The muscles in her face, neck, and shoulders were tight, her skin slightly damp, her jaw tensed. Definitely hurting. If she'd driven herself home, had she stopped? “Did you get something for pain?”
“They gave me a prescription.”
“Where's the bottle?”
“I…” A few streaks of color appeared on her pale cheeks as she admitted, “I didn't stop to get it filled.” She shrugged.
Cullen closed his eyes and worked on breathing out the rage, although it didn't help worth shit. He asked, “Do you feel like I can't be trusted to help?”
Her eyes widened. “No. Of course not.”
But that was definitely part of it. That and she saw herself as taking care of people and never the reverse. An ache settled into his guts, damping his temper, but hurting worse. “Andrea, would you like it if I was hurt and didn't call you?”
She blinked, and then said slowly, “Well, no.”
“Exactly.” Cullen ran a finger down her cheek and rose. “Does your apartment have rules about pets visiting?”
“Huh? I don't think so.”
“Good. Where's the prescription?”
Señor returned an hour later with both the pain pills and Hector. Hector dashed over to greet her, and Andrea cringed, bracing herself, but the dog halted instantly and eased up to her as slowly as a snail.
She petted him, and he sighed in bliss, leaning against the side of the couch. “How did he know to be careful?” she asked, remembering how he'd knocked her on her butt the first day.
“Not long after I got him, I got busted up,” Master Cullen said from the kitchen, “and when he rammed me, it doubled me over in pain. He's never done it since.” He returned, bringing some toast and orange juice. “I don't know if he recognizes the smell of a hospital or pain.”
She ate most of the toast, handing the crusts to Hector who accepted them with as much dignity as a stuffy butler. Since he'd brought Hector here, did he plan to spend the night?
Señor handed her a couple of the pain pills. “Let's get you to bed,” he said, his anger gone as if it hadn't occurred, but no smile lit his eyes either. Something inside her stirred uneasily.
“If you hand me my crutches up, I'll be fine,” she said and only earned herself an expressionless look.
“Do you need the bathroom?” he asked.
Why did that question feel so personal? But she did and very badly. She sighed. “Yes.”
He actually carried her into the bathroom. After he set her on her feet in front of the toilet, she balanced herself with a hand on the sink counter. “I can manage now,” she said.
He only snorted and had her shorts down around her ankles before she could protest. “Now you can manage, sweetie. Call me when you're done.” He brushed his knuckles over her cheek and left her.
The relief of an empty bladder momentarily wiped out the throbbing in her ankle, but it came back soon enough. She managed to pull up her shorts, only having to catch herself once, washed her hands and face, and brushed her teeth.
He'd obviously heard the sink, for he opened the door—without knocking, the cabrón—and picked her up. Was it petty of her to hope he had a sore back in the morning?
In the bedroom, he stripped her impersonally and tucked her in bed with her ankle elevated on pillows.
“I wear pajamas.” She pointed to the dresser.
“Not when you sleep with me.” He bent to give her a hard kiss, then left the room, snapping the light out on the way out.
The television came on in the living room, a low murmur of sound, and Andrea stared up at the dark ceiling. Okay, he definitely planned to spend the night. She snuggled down under the covers, and smiled.
* * *
In the morning, she felt much better. The headache had disappeared, and the pain in her ankle had decreased to a minor ache.
In fact, sometime during the night, she'd sprawled on top of her Señor. Now her arms and legs dangled off his body, making her feel like a deflated starfish. After pushing her hair out of her eyes, she rested her forearms on his chest. The dark stubble on his jawline gave him a dangerous appearance, and she smiled at him.
He smiled back…or his mouth did. His eyes didn't.
“How long have you been awake?” she asked.
“A while.” His big hands ran up and down her arms.
The somber note in his voice matched his gaze, and apprehension crawled inside her and lodged under her ribs. “What's wrong?”
His hand cupped her cheek. “I've been thinking about you and me.”
She swallowed. “And?”
“And I can't continue like this, Andrea.”
“Like what?” She wanted to be angry—hadn't the sex been great and all that?—but unease siphoned the anger away. His eyes stayed too serious, and he had on his Dom face.
“You didn't tell me about your injury.”
Dios, that again? “I know. But I handled it all right and—”
“No, that's not the point.” He didn't release her face, holding her so she couldn't look away. “When a sub has problems, a Dom wants to solve them. You pulled me out of a blue funk, remember? Did you enjoy it?”
She nodded.
“Doms enjoy helping too. It's part of what makes a Dom-sub relationship. Actually, any relationship at all requires give-and-take. Especially one that I'm in. Do you understand what I'm saying?”
“But I did fine.”
“No. You didn't. You drove when you shouldn't have and were in pain ” His eyes seemed too dark to be green. “We talked about this before, and you said you'd try.”
“But…”
“I haven't seen you trying at all, and I can see that you still don't understand. You don't think you did anything wrong. This won't work, Andrea.” Even as his mouth tightened, his eyes showed his pain. He'd looked like this after the fire, only this time rather than helping, she'd caused his hurt.
His voice was rough, uneven as he said, “I can't force you to change, but I know now, after yesterday, that I can't live with such a one-sided relationship.”
She couldn't find any words; her brain seemed encased in ice, every thought frozen in place. “But…maybe…”
He sighed. “No, Andrea. It's over. We have nothing to discuss, and we won't draw this out any longer. I won't call you again; don't call me.” He rolled her off of him and rose to his feet. His fingertips touched her cheek, featherlight. Then after gathering his clothing, he walked out of the bedroom. A minute later, she heard a low command and a whine from Hector. Her apartment door opened and closed, leaving her in silence. And emptiness.
A glimmer of dawn shone through the curtains, and the increasing noise of traffic said rush hour had begun.
He left me. “Don't go,” she whispered as the frozen feeling started to melt, leaving pain behind. “I need you.”
He'd probably say that she didn't act like it. Why hadn't she called him? Because she hadn't. That was all.
Her fists closed, wadding up the bedcovers. Why couldn't he take her as she was? Most guys complained about their clingy, needy girlfriends and wives, saying they demanded too much. He should have appreciated her independence, not rejected her.
Rejected. She sat up and hunched over her stomach, feeling as if he'd carved out her insides, leaving only a hollow behind. He'd left her apartment…her life. They hadn't been together that long, so why did she hurt as if she'd lost a part of herself?
Cabrón. He shouldn't want to change her. I'm just fine the way I am.
She slid out of bed and limped to the bathroom, the carpet muffling the sound of her feet. The mirror showed her pale face, eyes hollowed with pain. She leaned her hands against the counter, holding herself upright, wanting only to sink down on the floor in a miserable ball. She should have known any relationship she started wouldn't last. But how could she have imagined he'd leave her for such a…a stupid reason.
Her head bowed as the emptiness swelled inside her until she could choke with it.
She had a pissed off Dom in her small apartment, her whole body hurt like hell, and she felt content?
Idiota. Happy idiota.
Señor returned, wrapping her dishtowel around a large plastic bag filled with ice. He settled it on her ankle.
“Thank you.”
A grunt was her only acknowledgement. He prowled across the living room, his size dwarfing the furniture, making the ceiling feel low. Pulling her favorite armchair over to the couch, he sat down next to her. After examining the gash on her face again, he tapped the hospital ID band on her wrist. “You went to the emergency room. How did you get there, and how did you get home?”
The stubborn little tiger gave Cullen a look as if he lacked any brains whatsoever. “I drove.”
As his anger increased, his teeth ground together so hard they should have shattered. She drove. And acted as if everyone drove themselves to the ER and back. “Wasn't it difficult to use the pedals?” Considering she'd sprained her right ankle.
“I used my left foot.” She shifted on the couch to look at him better. The muscles in her face, neck, and shoulders were tight, her skin slightly damp, her jaw tensed. Definitely hurting. If she'd driven herself home, had she stopped? “Did you get something for pain?”
“They gave me a prescription.”
“Where's the bottle?”
“I…” A few streaks of color appeared on her pale cheeks as she admitted, “I didn't stop to get it filled.” She shrugged.
Cullen closed his eyes and worked on breathing out the rage, although it didn't help worth shit. He asked, “Do you feel like I can't be trusted to help?”
Her eyes widened. “No. Of course not.”
But that was definitely part of it. That and she saw herself as taking care of people and never the reverse. An ache settled into his guts, damping his temper, but hurting worse. “Andrea, would you like it if I was hurt and didn't call you?”
She blinked, and then said slowly, “Well, no.”
“Exactly.” Cullen ran a finger down her cheek and rose. “Does your apartment have rules about pets visiting?”
“Huh? I don't think so.”
“Good. Where's the prescription?”
Señor returned an hour later with both the pain pills and Hector. Hector dashed over to greet her, and Andrea cringed, bracing herself, but the dog halted instantly and eased up to her as slowly as a snail.
She petted him, and he sighed in bliss, leaning against the side of the couch. “How did he know to be careful?” she asked, remembering how he'd knocked her on her butt the first day.
“Not long after I got him, I got busted up,” Master Cullen said from the kitchen, “and when he rammed me, it doubled me over in pain. He's never done it since.” He returned, bringing some toast and orange juice. “I don't know if he recognizes the smell of a hospital or pain.”
She ate most of the toast, handing the crusts to Hector who accepted them with as much dignity as a stuffy butler. Since he'd brought Hector here, did he plan to spend the night?
Señor handed her a couple of the pain pills. “Let's get you to bed,” he said, his anger gone as if it hadn't occurred, but no smile lit his eyes either. Something inside her stirred uneasily.
“If you hand me my crutches up, I'll be fine,” she said and only earned herself an expressionless look.
“Do you need the bathroom?” he asked.
Why did that question feel so personal? But she did and very badly. She sighed. “Yes.”
He actually carried her into the bathroom. After he set her on her feet in front of the toilet, she balanced herself with a hand on the sink counter. “I can manage now,” she said.
He only snorted and had her shorts down around her ankles before she could protest. “Now you can manage, sweetie. Call me when you're done.” He brushed his knuckles over her cheek and left her.
The relief of an empty bladder momentarily wiped out the throbbing in her ankle, but it came back soon enough. She managed to pull up her shorts, only having to catch herself once, washed her hands and face, and brushed her teeth.
He'd obviously heard the sink, for he opened the door—without knocking, the cabrón—and picked her up. Was it petty of her to hope he had a sore back in the morning?
In the bedroom, he stripped her impersonally and tucked her in bed with her ankle elevated on pillows.
“I wear pajamas.” She pointed to the dresser.
“Not when you sleep with me.” He bent to give her a hard kiss, then left the room, snapping the light out on the way out.
The television came on in the living room, a low murmur of sound, and Andrea stared up at the dark ceiling. Okay, he definitely planned to spend the night. She snuggled down under the covers, and smiled.
* * *
In the morning, she felt much better. The headache had disappeared, and the pain in her ankle had decreased to a minor ache.
In fact, sometime during the night, she'd sprawled on top of her Señor. Now her arms and legs dangled off his body, making her feel like a deflated starfish. After pushing her hair out of her eyes, she rested her forearms on his chest. The dark stubble on his jawline gave him a dangerous appearance, and she smiled at him.
He smiled back…or his mouth did. His eyes didn't.
“How long have you been awake?” she asked.
“A while.” His big hands ran up and down her arms.
The somber note in his voice matched his gaze, and apprehension crawled inside her and lodged under her ribs. “What's wrong?”
His hand cupped her cheek. “I've been thinking about you and me.”
She swallowed. “And?”
“And I can't continue like this, Andrea.”
“Like what?” She wanted to be angry—hadn't the sex been great and all that?—but unease siphoned the anger away. His eyes stayed too serious, and he had on his Dom face.
“You didn't tell me about your injury.”
Dios, that again? “I know. But I handled it all right and—”
“No, that's not the point.” He didn't release her face, holding her so she couldn't look away. “When a sub has problems, a Dom wants to solve them. You pulled me out of a blue funk, remember? Did you enjoy it?”
She nodded.
“Doms enjoy helping too. It's part of what makes a Dom-sub relationship. Actually, any relationship at all requires give-and-take. Especially one that I'm in. Do you understand what I'm saying?”
“But I did fine.”
“No. You didn't. You drove when you shouldn't have and were in pain ” His eyes seemed too dark to be green. “We talked about this before, and you said you'd try.”
“But…”
“I haven't seen you trying at all, and I can see that you still don't understand. You don't think you did anything wrong. This won't work, Andrea.” Even as his mouth tightened, his eyes showed his pain. He'd looked like this after the fire, only this time rather than helping, she'd caused his hurt.
His voice was rough, uneven as he said, “I can't force you to change, but I know now, after yesterday, that I can't live with such a one-sided relationship.”
She couldn't find any words; her brain seemed encased in ice, every thought frozen in place. “But…maybe…”
He sighed. “No, Andrea. It's over. We have nothing to discuss, and we won't draw this out any longer. I won't call you again; don't call me.” He rolled her off of him and rose to his feet. His fingertips touched her cheek, featherlight. Then after gathering his clothing, he walked out of the bedroom. A minute later, she heard a low command and a whine from Hector. Her apartment door opened and closed, leaving her in silence. And emptiness.
A glimmer of dawn shone through the curtains, and the increasing noise of traffic said rush hour had begun.
He left me. “Don't go,” she whispered as the frozen feeling started to melt, leaving pain behind. “I need you.”
He'd probably say that she didn't act like it. Why hadn't she called him? Because she hadn't. That was all.
Her fists closed, wadding up the bedcovers. Why couldn't he take her as she was? Most guys complained about their clingy, needy girlfriends and wives, saying they demanded too much. He should have appreciated her independence, not rejected her.
Rejected. She sat up and hunched over her stomach, feeling as if he'd carved out her insides, leaving only a hollow behind. He'd left her apartment…her life. They hadn't been together that long, so why did she hurt as if she'd lost a part of herself?
Cabrón. He shouldn't want to change her. I'm just fine the way I am.
She slid out of bed and limped to the bathroom, the carpet muffling the sound of her feet. The mirror showed her pale face, eyes hollowed with pain. She leaned her hands against the counter, holding herself upright, wanting only to sink down on the floor in a miserable ball. She should have known any relationship she started wouldn't last. But how could she have imagined he'd leave her for such a…a stupid reason.
Her head bowed as the emptiness swelled inside her until she could choke with it.
