She had often wondered if he ever felt anything other than optimism. If he was ever down. If he ever hurt, or was tired, or just needed a shoulder to lean on. If he ever saw her as more than a friend he wanted to be kind to. Now, watching him with his hands between his knees, arms resting on his thighs, disheveled, pensive, she wondered why, unasked, her question had been answered.
What had happened? And how could she help?
He hadn't said a word since she had walked in and found him sitting there, by the window, the armchair not cradling his spine this time, but merely housing a body tense and ill at ease. His eyes never left the hands whose fingers he clasped together. His hair was mussed, as though he had only just that second run distracted fingers through it. His face was grim, shadowed by the late afternoon sunlight.
She kicked off her shoes, dropped her pocketbook on the bed and went to wash her hands. She had never had the chance to do anything for him since he had asked her to move into his home. He had always been the one to give — praise, support, encouragement — and all she had managed to give was gratitude. Despite the vast difference in their circumstances, and even knowing, as she did, that what he was offering was nothing more than a home, her desire to give everything she was and had to him was unabated. She knew he would not have her body, though she was eager to give it, and had no use for her heart, though it was his for the taking.
Today, she would give him something he needed, and hope it would be enough to lighten the burden that seemed to be weighing him down in the chair. She dried her hands, and picked up the oil she used to smooth her skin at night. Walking back into the bedroom where he sat, she approached him determinedly if cautiously, and when he did not acknowledge her, she sank to her knees in front of him.
"Bad day today?" she asked.
He raised dark eyes to her face, nodded, and then said, as she touched his hands with hers,
"Nothing for you to worry about, though." He held her gaze, and she felt somehow he wanted her to leave him alone. This time, though, she wouldn't. She had helped him once before, nursed him back to health at a time when he was most alone. It was for that reason that he had given her free access to his home and his protection.
"Here, Jon, let me help you!"
She rarely called him by name, and even more rarely touched him. Today, though, things would change. She did not know what the future held for her, or whether he would remain in her life, in her world, or she in his. But the time had come to take control, to give back to the one man she had learned to trust. Because trust was love, and she knew that she loved him.
He looked at her when she kissed his entwined hands before pulling the tie from around his neck, but otherwise did not react. He still did not react when she separated his fingers, and finished unbuttoning the shirt, peeling it off his shoulders. He still did not react when she untied his shoes and slipped them and his socks off his large feet. But he never took his eyes off her.
He inhaled deeply when she trailed trembling fingers down his abs to the waistband of his dress pants, but didn't respond when she pulled the buckle on his belt and slid it through the loops. When she pushed against his chest, he sat back and watched her unbutton and unzip his pants.
"Get up a sec," she ordered him, and he stood up, his hands fisted at his sides. She wondered why, but did not remark upon it, only pushed his pants down his legs, leaving his black boxers on his hips.
"Step out of them," she told him. He did, without demur, and when she led him to his bed he went and let her arrange him on his belly, arms at his sides, face toward the door. She folded his clothes and put them on the chair, then fetched the oil and went back to his side. She had not spent a whole year working as an assistant to a massage therapist without having learned something. She would try to ease his tension as her gift to him, and give herself the gift of his muscles and skin.
He turned his head unexpectedly and pinned her with his gaze as she sat next to him on the bed.
"It'll work better if you straddle me," he murmured. "And if I'm naked, and you're...less fully dressed, that would be even better!"
She blushed, but stripped to her bra and panties without a second thought. He watched her as she did so, and then, before she could tell him to, he turned over and raised his hips. His eyes never left her face, and she hooked the waistband of his boxers and pulled them down and off his legs. His cock was hard, and her shock could not have been greater if he had cold-cocked her.
Suddenly unsure of how to proceed, she stared at the evidence of his arousal. She had seen him naked before, when she had had had to clean him up once when he came home dead drunk and muddy from falling over in his newly turned but unplanted garden, so she was not uncomfortable with his nudity. But she wondered how she had missed his sexual interest in her. He had never, even once, indicated that he was moved by her in any way. So obviously, this must just be a response to some other stimuli unrelated to her unremarkable body and personality. She picked up the oil and told him to turn over again.
"No."
His refusal stymied her as it excited her, and for the second time in less than five minutes, she was stunned speechless. Being a quick-witted woman, however, she pushed past the shock and asked if he wanted her to start with him on his back.
