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I immediately lifted up, taking pressure off of his injured leg. His face had paled. I’d done that. Hurt him. When all I wanted was to relieve the ache we both felt.

“I’m so sorry, Jimmy.”

He breathed deeply through his clenched jaw, his nostrils flaring. His white face was my fault. I scrambled off of the bed, pacing a few steps away.

“I got carried away. Do you need anything? Do you want more painkillers?”

He shook his head quickly to the negative. He breathed for a few more moments and my shoulders relaxed as his color returned.

“I’m okay.”

I held back the eyeroll with effort. Right. It used to be me who worried about passing out, but Jimmy’s leg and ribs were introducing their own challenges to horny times. My own ardor had cooled as soon as I realized Jimmy was hurting. We were supposed to be about pleasure, not pain.

“Are you sure you don’t need anything?”

His eyes lit at my words, full of longing as his gaze took in my stiff nipples beneath his shirt. They still announced the desire I shouldn’t feel. Slutty nipples. Read the room. I shook my head at the suggestion in his expression. “No, we don’t. Not until you’re feeling better.”

Jimmy nodded reluctantly, and I willed my body to behave. My husband needed me. But he needed me to take care of him first. We still had months to do every wicked thing we could imagine. Months. My stomach sank, throat tightening as I turned out the lights. It wouldn’t be enough.

I ached to be held in Jimmy’s arms, or to hold him in mine. But we couldn’t. He needed more time to heal. I couldn’t set him back again. You shouldn’t hurt the ones you love.

***

The next few days werethe toughest test our short marriage had faced. Jimmy was not an easygoing patient. He was usually so amiable, I hadn’t anticipated how difficult being incapacitated would be for him. Immobility with a side of frustrated desire was not a good look on anyone.

He was grumpy. I didn’t know what to do with a grumpy Jimmy. I didn’t think such an animal existed. Not being able to work, go to the gym, or cook in our kitchen left him with nothing to do but play video games, watch TV, and complain. I’d even let him win a few games to try to improve his mood, but nothing worked. He took his injuries personally, and groused that he wanted to make me dinner and take care of me, that I should be the one convalescing.

“What do you want for dinner?” I asked.

“I don’t care,” he answered listlessly.

He cared. I’d never met a man more interested in food. He had opinions to spare about the local restaurants. “Where shall I get takeout from?” He shrugged. “Okay, I can heat up some of the leftovers from Chase and Tamra. How about the chicken and rice casserole?”

“I don’t want that,” he said.

“I’ll make you a grilled cheese then.”

“No, thank you.”

“What do you want?”

He scowled. We’d been going around and round on our dinner choice.

“I’ll go get anything you want,” I offered.

He shrugged again. “I don’t know what I want.”

“You know what youdon’twant,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Yeah. But I don’t know what Idowant.”

Kill me now. Maybe cannibalism would appeal? I know, I know.Gross.Still. If he didn’t pick something soon, I was putting it on the table.

“Italian,” I suggested.

“Too salty.”

“Mexican?”