Page 36 of Whatever Lola Wants (Odyssey #2)

He brushed his fingers over her hair above the bandage on her forehead, grimacing when he realized how much blood was still caked in her hair.

She’d had a sponge bath this morning, as she wasn’t allowed to shower yet.

She couldn’t get the stitches wet, so washing her own hair would be difficult.

After her nap—and after she’d eaten—he’d draw her a bath.

A long soak would no doubt help soothe some of the aches and pains, and he could help her wash her hair.

He laid his head back against the sofa and closed his eyes. A nap sounded like a great idea, since he’d had even less sleep than she’d had the night before. With Wesley and Buttercup making their way through the fire swamp in the background, he drifted off.

When he woke, the television was off. He frowned, wondering how long he’d been out, and he lifted his head to see if Lola still slept.

She wasn’t there.

He swung his legs to the floor. “ Lola ?”

“In here,” she called, and he rose to follow her voice down the hall.

He found her in the hall bath, washing her hands in the sink. “ What do you think you’re doing?”

She blinked in confusion. “ I’m washing my hands.”

He didn’t miss the careful way she was holding her left leg, her toes barely touching the floor as she avoided putting any weight on it. “ Why didn’t you wake me?”

She shut off the water and reached for the towel on the rack. “ You were sleeping so soundly, you didn’t even twitch when I got up.”

“You should’ve woken me,” he repeated, and she sent him an exasperated frown.

“I can pee by myself, Simon .”

He shook his head. If she thought he was going to shy away from basic bodily functions, she didn’t know him very well. “ I don’t care if you pee by yourself, but you need help getting around. You can’t even put any weight on that leg.”

She grimaced. “ It wasn’t pretty, but I managed. I just hung onto the wall all the way down.”

He pictured her hobbling down the hallway, using the wall to keep herself upright, and felt some of that rage gather. “ You idiot.”

Her mouth dropped open in shock. “ Now , listen?—”

“No, you listen,” he told her, his voice hard and angry, and she shut her mouth.

“ I’m not your Dom and you’re not my submissive.

Fine . But you are my lover, and my friend, and if you think I’m going to let you get away with pushing yourself too hard and not taking care of yourself, then baby, you have no idea who you’re dealing with. ”

The look on her face was one of utter shock. “ I? —”

He cut her off. “ Not done. Until you can walk—without holding on to the goddamn wall—you will tell me when you need to go somewhere. You will let me help you get there. Or I will tie you to the fucking bed. You get me?”

Her eyes wide, she nodded slowly. “ I get you.”

“Good.” He stepped into the bathroom, ignoring her instinctive step back, and scooped her up into his arms.

“Um.” She cleared her throat as he walked back down the hall. “ Where are we going?”

He stared straight ahead, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “ You need food.”

He strode into the kitchen and deposited her carefully on a stool at the breakfast bar. “ Stay ,” he ordered and strode to the fridge.

She kept quiet while he dug out Anna’s lasagna, dumped it onto a plate, and shoved it into the microwave. He stabbed at the buttons to start it heating, then turned to the cabinet for glasses. “ Do you want water, milk, or juice?”

“Juice, please,” she said quietly, and he pulled it out of the fridge. He poured a glass and set it in front of her.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” The microwave beeped, so he busied himself dividing the slab of lasagna, sliding a portion onto a second plate, and digging out forks. By the time he slid a plate in front of her and sat down, the red mist had faded from his vision.

“Eat.”

He dug into his own pasta, then stilled when she laid a hand on his arm. “ I’m sorry.”

He sighed, feeling the rest of his anger drain away. He turned to face her, wincing at the wary look in her eyes. “ No . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” He dragged a hand through his hair. “ Hell .”

She gave him a tentative smile. “ I think I get it. And I am sorry. I wasn’t trying to say I don’t need your help. If I'd thought otherwise, the trip down the hall would’ve cured me of that notion.”

He scowled, and she hurried to explain, warned by the look on his face.

“I just… I woke up, and I had to pee, and I know you didn’t sleep last night, so I thought I’d let you rest a while.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “ So , you’re beat half to shit, you have a concussion, and you tried to take care of me.”

She shrugged, sheepish. “ Yeah .”

He reached out to cup her chin in his hand. “ I get that you’re used to doing for yourself, Lola . And I’m not trying to undermine your independence.”

“I know that,” she said softly.

He went on as though she hadn’t spoken. “ But sweetheart, you’re hurt. The doctor said you were lucky you didn’t break your leg, and the head injury could’ve been so much worse. You’ll only prolong your recovery if you don’t take proper care of yourself.”

“I know,” she repeated, and held up a hand when he would’ve spoken again. “ I do know, and I’m sorry I didn’t wake you. Not just because I hurt more now than I did before, but because I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful for your help. Because I am. And I’m really glad you’re here.”

He sighed. “ How am I supposed to yell at you after you say something like that?”

Her smile turned impish. “ I don’t know. Forgive me?”

He nodded. “ Forgiven . But the next time you forget to take care of yourself, an ‘ I’m sorry’ won’t cut it. You follow me?”

She nodded. “ I follow you.”

He nodded once. “ Good . Now , eat. After you’re fed, we can run you a bath.”

“Really?” Her face lit with delight at the prospect. “ Can you help me wash my hair, too? I have to keep the stitches dry, but I’ve still got all this dried blood everywhere.”

“I’d be glad to,” he answered, pleased when she smiled and tucked into her food.

Maybe he wouldn’t have to beat her ass, after all.

Bummer.

Lola sank back against Simon’s broad chest with a heartfelt groan.

The hot water felt like glory on her abused body, and she felt herself really relax for the first time in nearly twenty-four hours.

Her hair was clean, thanks to her lover, and he’d washed the rest of her too, taking care to be gentle around the scrapes and bruises.

All in all, he made a very effective ladies' maid.

Though she probably shouldn’t put it quite that way to him.

“I see that smile,” he said from above. He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “ You must be feeling better.”

“Much,” she sighed. “ Thank you for washing my hair. I feel so much better with it clean.”

“Anytime.” He shifted slightly, his arms coming around her waist. “ You ready to get out, or do you want to soak for a while?”

“I never want to get out of this tub.”

His chuckle rumbled in her ear. “ Sorry , but you only get ten more minutes.”

“Stingy,” she muttered, and he tweaked her breast in rebuke.

“Much longer than that and the hot water will start working against you. I want to get some ice on that thigh bruise.”

She winced at the thought. “ I don’t suppose we could skip that part.”

“I don’t suppose,” he replied, amused.

She gave a forlorn sigh just to hear him chuckle again, then settled in to enjoy her ten minutes.

When it was up he got out first, insisting she stay put until he could bring her a robe, then lifted her out and gently dried her off before bundling her up and carrying her to bed.

He had an ice pack waiting, and she hissed as the cold hit her tender, heated skin.

“Sorry, sweetheart.” He held the pack against her leg, his gaze sympathetic. “ Try to breathe through it.”

She drew in a deep, cleansing breath, focusing on filling her lungs, then let it out slowly. The breathing technique worked in yoga when she was trying to settle into a difficult or painful pose, maybe it would work on bruises as well.

To her surprise, the pain lessened slightly. Whether a result of the numbing ice or the breathing she didn’t know, and didn’t care.

“Better?” he murmured.

She nodded. “ Better .”

His eyes softened. “ Good .”

He made her keep the ice on for twenty minutes, then carried her back into the living room to settle her on the sofa. It was early yet, and the nap she’d had meant she wasn’t too tired despite the upheaval of the day before, so this time he picked a movie to watch.

“This movie also qualifies as funny, sexy, and romantic.”

He shot her a look of disbelief. “ Funny and sexy I’ll grant you, but Deadpool is romantic?”

“Oh, yeah. Serious romance.”

He shook his head and settled back on the sofa, with her lying on top of him again. “ Sorry , disagree. There’s no romance in this at all.”

She snuggled into his chest. “ I’ll point out all the romantic bits.”

“You’re going to wreck it for me,” he complained.

She did exactly that, pointing out all the parts she found romantic, and he pointed out all the parts that were not.

They kept score, then disputed the result, with her claiming romance had outpaced non-romance at least two to one.

He protested that the sheer volume of gruesome deaths pushed it over into the non-romance side.

“Sorry,” she told him, shaking her head. “ But since a large majority of those gruesome deaths happened because he was trying to protect or rescue the woman he loved, they count as romantic.”

“Killing is romantic,” he repeated, deadpan.

“Well, in real life, no. But in the movies? Duh .” She shook her head at him sadly. “ You don’t know much about romance, do you?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “ If you weren’t already beat to shit, I’d make you pay for that.”

“I know,” she said with obvious delight, and he burst out laughing.

“Enjoy your Get Out of an Ass Beating Free card while it lasts, woman. My time will come.”

She was counting on it. “ In the meantime, why don’t you make me something to eat? I could use a snack.”

He shook his head as he shifted her off him so he could rise. “ Oh yeah, my time will come,” he muttered and strode off to the kitchen.

She watched him go with a little sigh of contentment.

She ached all over, her head throbbed, and she knew if she tried to stand, she’d fall right back on her ass again.

But as she watched Simon putter about her kitchen, putting together a tray of cheese and crackers, she didn’t think she’d ever been happier.

He gave her another pain pill before he fed her, and while she was eating had her go another round with the ice pack on her thigh.

To make up for the discomfort he let her pick what to watch next.

She introduced him to Deadhead , a British show about two young women with the ability to see—and hunt—demons.

He laughed until she thought he’d burst, and they binge watched all the episodes.

By the time the credits were rolling on the last one, she was half asleep.

He flicked off the television and scooped her up, carrying her to the bathroom so she could get ready for bed, and he only let her pee in privacy if she promised to call him when she was finished.

She rolled her eyes for form, but complied without complaint.

Fatigue was dragging at her, making her lean heavily on the counter while she brushed her teeth.

When she was finished, he carried her gently into the bedroom, slipping the robe carefully off her shoulders before tucking her between cool sheets.

She turned onto her right side to keep pressure off her bruised left leg, and he climbed in behind her, tugging her into the curve of his body so her butt nestled against his groin, her back against his chest. His erection pressed against her, and she wiggled back into him with sleepy interest.

His arm tightened. “ Behave ,” he growled in her ear. “ You’re in no shape for sex.”

She subsided with a sigh. He was right. She was so sore, and so tired. But maybe tomorrow…

“Go to sleep,” he murmured against her neck, and she did.