14. Kurt

Johnny emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of cloves and citrus, my new favorite scent. I love it.

I wonder what it is—must be soap or aftershave or something. Maybe a combination of products. He should bottle it and sell it, because it makes me think of something sweet and sexy and a little old-fashioned. Which is Johnny. Well, it's how I think of him, but that's probably not the common perception, so maybe it wouldn't work.

He's got one of my plush dark blue towels wrapped around his hips, showing off his V-cut and his tanned, muscled torso. I've mapped out all of those abs many times on video, but seeing them in person does something to me—something like set fire to my bloodstream.

While he was showering, I ran downstairs to shut up the house for the night and turn off the downstairs lights, so I'm in my underwear and taking off my shirt when he returns to the bedroom. I ache with the need to hold him. To run my fingers over his bare skin. To kiss him.

"Feel better?" I ask, and okay, yeah. I'm checking him out. He's just so beautiful, and he draws me to him. When I used to watch his videos, the minute he was on-screen, my dick would start to harden like Pavlov's dogs start to drool. Even though he was nothing more than a bunch of pixels, he always looked so touchable.

Only now he's here in person, and sober.

Johnny looks me up and down, and his expression tells me that he wants me as much as I want him. He stretches his arms over his head, making the ladder on his belly pop. "Shower felt good, yeah." A drop of water trickles down his forehead and across his high cheekbone. His eyes heat, and he bites his lower lip.

"Jesus fuck," I whisper. Before I know what I'm doing, I take a step forward and crush my mouth to his, wrapping my arms around his waist. He stiffens and inhales sharply.

"Sorry," I say, pulling back but gently running my teeth along his lower lip. Against his skin, I say, "I should've asked first."

"Darlin', shut up," Johnny says. And then he takes over the kiss. I don't know if you've ever been kissed by a 6′6″ cowboy, but they really take over. He tilts up my jaw and keeps one hand under my chin, the other on the back of my neck. The move's possessive. He's claiming me.

I love it.

And my mind races to say You're not special. He does this for a living. He's like this with everyone.

I can't help but love that he's this way with me, though. I can't help but be swept away by this kiss. His minty tongue's in my mouth. His hot body's against mine. My hands are reaching around him and clenching on the smooth skin of his back, not sure if I should do more. He takes a step forward, and I take a step back, and there's no doubt he's the one running this show now.

We've kissed before—just last night—but that was drunken, and this is not. That was out of my mind, and this is … just wanting. My dick's hardening against his thigh, and I rut into him, almost without my volition.

"Can we have sex?" I blurt, when we break apart again.

Johnny traces a finger down my throat. "That could be arranged."

Excitement surges through every inch of my body … except for a small, still-rational part that reminds me why Johnny's here at all. I force myself to try to think. "With how you've been feeling … are you sure you're okay with it?"

"I don't need to be feeling good to have sex," he says.

Cold water douses my desire. "Yeah. That's … that's a no."

Johnny groans. "Normally I'd be all over getting together with someone as handsome as you. Now I'm so screwed up that I can't even give you a good time."

"That's okay," I tell him, taking a small step back. "I didn't bring you here for sex. I'm sorry—I shouldn't have gone there."

"You have nothing to apologize for." He kisses me again, but it's a plea. "You're so sweet, and I do want you, even if I'm depressed or whatever it is. Just, if you don't mind, maybe not tonight. When I fuck you, it should be 'cause we're both into it."

"I can wait," I say. I don't want to acknowledge how much of a thrill his "when" sends through me.

"It could even be in the morning. I dunno. That okay?"

"Of course." I'm half-hard, but that's not the end of the world. "Can I ask a question that's none of my business?"

"That hasn't stopped you before."

"Yeah, okay. Fair. So … depression affects libido, right? Which makes me wonder, why would you think you might be more up for sex in the morning?" I don't want to be negative with him, but his depression isn't going to just go away overnight.

Johnny stares at his feet. "It's not like I understand what's going on inside my head, but I've got good days and not so good and then some downright terrible ones—and it's not necessarily whole days, either. Sometimes I'm fine, and sometimes I can't move. Sometimes things give me pleasure, and sometimes they plain don't. I can't always come, but touching still feels good—usually, at least. I can't explain it better than that."

"Makes sense. Would you do me a favor, though? I can't see inside your head. Can you keep me informed—as best you can—about how you're feeling?"

"I'll try." He looks at the bed. "Do you want me to put something on to sleep in? I usually don't, but I can."

I want to moan. Because I've seen him naked. I desire him. But I'm not gonna be a creep. "I want you to be comfortable," I say, meaning it.

Johnny hangs up his towel and comes back to the bedroom, all naked and glorious, his dick huge and mouthwatering. But then he looks at the bag of new clothes and opens a package of boxers. "Maybe I'll just wear these."

I sigh, but I understand. "Whatever you feel best in. It's been a very long day. And you've got that appointment tomorrow."

Johnny looks at me, resigned. I can tell he doesn't want to go, but he can't muster the energy to argue with me—or he knows he shouldn't argue, even though the idea of therapy terrifies him. Either way, it breaks my heart. What's this man like when his brain isn't beating him down?

"It's fine, precious," he says, and he climbs into my bed.

In the middle of the night, I'm awoken by noise and movement.

Johnny's moaning loudly and thrashing around under the covers.

"Shh," I say, trying to calm him but not wanting to get too close, because he's a big man, and he seems to be having a nightmare. Or maybe some kind of episode? I have no idea.

He cries out, and the raw vulnerability in his voice makes my heart break. I turn on the light. Everything looks worse in the darkness. Ask me how I know.

"Johnny," I whisper. "Hey. You're okay. It's okay. You're here with me."

He thrashes some more, but then he sits up, eyes vacant, roaring, "Goddamnit, no!" But then he seems to come to. He's trembling, and a tear rolls down his cheek. He shakes his head and blinks blearily, then cocks his head. "What? Where am—? Aww, hell."

"Hey," I say quietly. "You were having a nightmare."

"Didn't mean to wake you." He looks down at his hands. His torso is sheened with sweat.

"It's okay," I say. I want to ask what he was dreaming about, except I've been pushing him all day, ever since I found out his plans. And while I'm not going to stop trying to take care of him, he doesn't have to tell me all his secrets. Us getting drunk-married doesn't entitle me to that. Heck, being sober-married doesn't necessarily mean people don't keep secrets, though I'd like to think it would. "Maybe you can talk about it with the therapist," I offer, hoping that won't piss him off … but even if it does, he needs to learn that it's normal to go to a therapist and share your truths with them. It's not a sign of weakness.

Johnny huffs and turns onto his side, his back to me.

Well, shit.

I don't want to touch him if he doesn't want to be touched, but it's amazing how dejected a big man can look when he's curled up in the middle of a big bed at dark o'clock.

"Want me to keep the light on?" I whisper.

"I don't need to sleep with the light on," he snaps. "I'm not a child."

"Never said you were. But you've obviously got a few demons that need slaying."

"My demons respawn. Even if I get 'em, they come back." Johnny's back to sounding defeated.

I turn the bedside lamp off but go into the bathroom and turn that light on, then leave the door cracked so it serves as a night-light. I can almost hear Johnny side-eyeing me, but he can deal with me being a mother hen.

When I crawl back into bed, I face him, so we're like a quotation mark. I still don't touch him, even though I really want to. I want to feel his big, warm body against mine.

But what matters is what he wants. What he needs.

Holding in a sigh, I turn onto my other side, so that we're facing away from each other.

A few moments later, Johnny rolls over and shuffles toward me. His lips tickle my neck. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I don't like anyone seeing me like this."

"I'm not going to judge you," I whisper.

"Yeah." He doesn't sound convinced.

I decide to just go for it. "If it might help keep the nightmares away, you can put your arms around me. I like having you close."

"Even with me flipping around like a fish on a pier?"

"Even then."

He hesitates for a moment, but soon one of his arms snakes under my neck, the other around my middle, as he spoons me. I relax instantly with his big, hot body tucked up against mine, and he seems to settle in, too. He rumbles something deep in his chest that sounds satisfied.

This. This is what I wanted.

Maybe it will make him feel better, too.

He kisses the back of my neck and my hair, and his fingers trace absent circles on my stomach. Not annoyingly. Gently.

Soon, his breaths are easy, and I fall asleep, cradled in his embrace.