Chapter 39: Red

Chapter 39: Red

Rob was an incredibly patient and well-mannered person.  He was polite to a fault, even when he didn’t need to be or shouldn’t have been.  But it was just part of him, the way he was brought up, and it was a wonderful quality.  When we were out in public that demeanor often changed.  Gone was the quiet and sweetly polite guy who wore his heart on his sleeve, instead a much more guarded, less open, less accommodating, but really no less polite, guy took his place – a guy who frequently radiated a high level of frustration.  I think it’s worse when we’re together; I think he can handle it better when he’s alone.  When the intrusive and relentless paps target him alone, he only has to worry about himself, he only has to protect himself.  And he can distance himself from their words, from their actions, from their maliciousness.  When we’re together, his defensiveness shoots up about one hundred percent and I am never out of his sight and my hand is never anywhere but held in his. 

Paparazzi say shit all the time to try and provoke responses.  When they get hit or a camera gets smashed, it makes for good press, good gossip, a good and “real” look into the life of the modern celebrity.  It shows them for who they really “are,” or at least that’s what the magazines claim.  I’ll tell you who we really are.  We’re a couple of young, regular people, who happen to act, who are endlessly hounded, stalked, yelled at, and cursed at because the asshole media has been given the right to exploit without consequence.  Send a pap after a “normal” person for a day – see how long it takes for them to respond or for legislation to be started.  When I’m on a red carpet, or at a press junket and they want to be intrusive, go right ahead.  That is the designated time for them to do that – it’s part of the job.  When I’m in the car getting In-and-Out for dinner after a bad day, they have no right, no reason beyond some need to fill the public’s demand for material.  There doesn’t need to be fifty pictures of that one event – I’d even settle for them taking two or three and being on their way.   It’s not fair to say that because we are “celebrities,” whatever the fuck that even means, we should grant them an all access pass into our privacy.  We should not give anyone the right to justify stalking or hounding or slander because, at the root, that’s exactly what it is.

Rob breaks my heart when this happens.  Because, alone, he looks incredibly lost and frustrated, wandering aimlessly while trying to avoid or evade, no solution or way out feasible without them getting what they want.  And allowing them what they want is no better than refusing – it just makes them hungrier, greedier, more, more, more.  That can be very dangerous, too.  He’s stopped the car on many occasions because they literally swarm like moths to the flame and driving becomes a hazard.  He cannot fathom the need for them to follow him all day – he cannot cognitively identify a reason for it – he needs there to be a reason, he needs there to be something they’re getting from it beyond greed and disrespect because you really don’t need a thousand pictures.  It’s just not necessary.  So, he cannot understand why they feel the need to follow and stick to him like glue.  Even if they followed, if they only took several shots and were done, I think he’d be ok with that.  Still annoying, but less brash and just blatantly disregarding any rights we have as human beings.  We’re not stupid, we know that being in the public eye will create more fervor and interest, but we’re also not asking for them to completely avoid us like the plague, we’re just asking for a little understanding.  

When we’re together and it happens, sometimes it scares me – the way his body gets tense and his shoulders are up nearly to his neck and his grip on my hand becomes almost too tight, either from fear that I’ll be lost in the milieu, or that the rage is so thinly masked that he’s on the cusp of violence and the hand-holding is the only way to alleviate the desperation and frustration he feels.  I don’t want him to have to be that guarded, to have to be that desperate and frustrated.  We’re just lucky that the places we visit regularly, like the hospital and the physical therapist’s office, are not places they are likely to frequent and stalk.  What scares me most is thinking about what’s bubbling under the surface for him – what it’s from exactly, what the cause is- because it’s not even necessarily the paparazzi, they just make it worse, and exactly how far can he be pushed before he falls over that edge?  And it’s almost worse because we’ve been away from it.  You get used to the quiet again, what it was like before the storm hit, and it’s almost more jarring to be reintroduced to that, like being dropped into a bucket of freezing cold ice water.  

And if I really thought about it – admitted it – Rob and I were different now.  Things were different now.  The stakes were higher; we both had more to lose.  So, while he was always protective, always watched out for me in crowds, now he was on high alert, like the threat level had been raised to Severe Risk of Attack red.  

It didn’t really happen all at once.  It was a gradual thing, a progression.  When I first started filming again, I wasn’t sure if it was because they were all busy stalking someone else or what.  I didn’t question our good fortune, I just relished in the calm.  There had been a few paps here and there, not every day, and they hadn’t been particularly pushy or nasty either.  It built over time.  Steadily.  Slow progress.  Soon there were a few more, then a few more, then I no longer walked to the car alone and Rob insisted on hiring private security.  Honestly, I thought it was a tad bit overkill, but it made him feel better, and there were many times later when I was glad they were there.  

When Rob was on set with me, and the paps started to know, that’s when things really exploded.  I suppose the article coming out had something to do with that.  It didn’t have monumental aftershocks necessarily.  People who already thought we were a couple were vindicated and happy, or vindicated and furious.  We couldn’t change opinions, and had to just deal with the rest.  If anything, it just made us a hotter commodity to capture on film.  Which wasn’t really any different than what we had.  And at least we did start it on our terms, even if it did nothing in terms of stopping rumors.  The lure of both of us, together, proved to be far too tempting for them to ignore.  Like we were fucking worms on hooks, bait, just waiting for them to gobble us up.  And the larger the crowd, the more heated things became over time.  Then there was pushing and shoving, even among the ranks, and shouting and yelling and rude remarks and crude comments.  I tried not to listen, it was just best to block it out.  If I actually listened to what they were saying, I’d probably go insane.  Or I’d wind up crying.  It was just better to ignore.  

It was hard, though.  When they were in your face and shoving cameras there, pissed off that the security was blocking a shot or that you, God forbid, refused to look in their direction, they’d start to taunt and goad and prod and push until they got their shot or they got the reaction they wanted. 

We were leaving the set one day, with security of course, but a rather large crowd poured into the lot.  And, per usual, the yelling and shouting had started and both of our names were being screamed at us, as if we could even attempt to look in their direction with all the flashbulbs.  When they didn’t get what they wanted, they started the usual chorus of curses and insults, calling me a bitch and Rob an asshole, accusing us of being snobbish and too good to give them a picture.  When the curses didn’t work, they moved onto the stupid questions like, ‘Kristen, are you fucking Rob?’  ‘Rob, does she give good head?’  And I could tell by the hand-gripping and the way his body was tensing that he was getting close to that limit.  I think the random questions about fucking Rob and blowjobs are relatively easy to shrug off.  When they start getting sexually aggressive, though, that’s when Rob typically loses it.  His patience by that time had worn very thin, the last threads peeling slowly until only that one tenuous strand was all that’s holding it in.  And when ‘Lookin’ good, Kristen’ didn’t do it, one shove too close and ‘Nice tits’ did.  And he turned and was literally right in this pap’s face, his hand still gripping mine, refusing to let to, and I knew that if I didn’t get him the fuck out of there, we’d be battling assault charges.  Security moved in pretty quickly then, seeing Rob that close and his fist literally tensing and pulling back while yelling, “Show some fucking respect,” was enough to make them adjust their positions and get us away from the throng of piranhas.  I pulled on Rob’s hand until I got him to stop turning and yelling more shit back.  

“That’s exactly what he wanted you to do,” I said, not exactly admonishing but stating the obvious.

“Well, it fucking worked.”

I shuddered to think what might happen if one day he lost my hand.  Like, I could very clearly see him going completely batshit crazy and frantic as he tried to get to me, letting no one stand in his way.  

We kept walking, now close enough to the car that I could see it, but I could tell the distance had not made Rob’s anger lessen.  We hadn’t actually lost the paps; the cameras loved the mini non-altercation and were already circling like sharks, waiting to spin the pictures.  I could only guess what the bylines might say: “Robert Pattinson flattens photographer,” “Pattinson flies into rage, one photographer hospitalized,” or something equally insane.  I’m sure any number would be published before the night was over. 

We managed to get to the waiting vehicle without any more incidents, but Rob was still seething.  Was I upset by their words?  Sure.  Did I let that influence me enough to give into what they wanted?  No.  And he hadn’t either, exactly, but he’d allowed them to start it and, if I hadn’t pulled him away and security hadn’t stepped in, I’m sure he would have finished it, too.

“You can’t let them get to you that much, Rob,” I said quietly, running my thumb over his knuckles.  “I know it sucks, and I know the shit they say is completely disrespectful and awful and infuriating, but you just can’t let it get inside.”

“I know,” he said tersely.

“So what happened?”

“I just let it slip, that’s all.  It’s nothing.  It won’t happen again.”

He was staring out the window at the line of paparazzi still assembled, yelling and running along with the car, furious and frenzied to try to get that one last shot.  He was placating me.  Just telling me what I wanted to hear, what the appropriate and proper response was supposed to be.  This wasn’t going to go away.  His posture said that much – he wasn’t letting it go, he was still angry, and didn’t look like he was too concerned with letting it go anytime soon either.  Eventually, this would get him in trouble.  It would get him hurt.  But those reasons wouldn’t stop him either – I knew that, too.  If he continued to allow them to make him this angry, they’d use that, they’d want that, and they’d purposely goad and say shit that would make him react because they’d get to know that he would.  He’d give them what they wanted if they said the right things.  It was a vicious cycle I didn’t want to see start.  And those reasons wouldn’t flash in his mind the next time a pap got too close or got too mouthy.  He would just react like he had now, just an uncontrolled response.  It was pointless telling him any of this, though.  It would fall on deaf and placating ears.  He wouldn’t care about it now.  

And he wouldn’t think about it then.

Which, of course, meant we had to stop the response before it got worse.

I asked the driver to change our destination, deciding that we couldn’t go home yet.  Rob didn’t seem to notice really, either not caring that we weren’t going home yet or not listening to me, too far into his frustration. 

When the car stopped, he finally seemed to notice that we weren’t at home. 

“What are we doing here?” he asked.  “I don’t have therapy today.”

“You do now,” I said.  “Get out of the car.”

He didn’t argue with me, but my tone really didn’t allow it, either. 

He was still pissed off, too, and I’m sure this was only adding to it.  He walked all hunched and scowling, following me into the office.  Ethan did a double take when we walked through the door, but smiled and waved, walking over. 

“What are you two doing here today?  Did you miss me that much?”

I didn’t beat around the bush. “He’s angry,” I jerked my thumb in Rob’s direction.  “He needs anger management or some sort of outlet.  Can you show him some safe way to beat something so he’s not so angry?”

“I am not angry,” he said, all indignant and… well, angrily. 

Ethan and I had the decency not to scoff and laugh at him.

“Well, I could have told you that,” Ethan said, smiling.  “I told you he was bottling a lot.”

“I know,” I nodded.

“So… what?  You guys just discuss me like some experiment?”

I turned to look at him, “No, we discuss you because I love you, and he cares, so shut up and just do whatever he tells you to.”

He twisted his mouth like he was going to complain or argue with me, but my eyebrows rose and then he just sighed huffily and looked at Ethan.  “Where do you want me?”

Ethan smirked, “Well isn’t that just about the best question for replies,” he said, chuckling.  “Come on,” he jerked his head for us to follow, or rather for Rob to follow, but I wasn’t going to sit on the sidelines now that I had him here. 

Thus began Rob’s second venture into boxing. 

Ethan wasted no time, “Take off your shirt.”

I was slightly amused when Rob did just as ordered, basically starting to strip.  I was happy he seemed to trust Ethan’s judgment implicitly now.  I don’t think my presence affected his reaction at all.  Ethan produced this rather large, awkward looking black piece of material that was obviously some sort of shoulder support when he unfolded it.  I attempted to note how it went on, what strap went where and how his arm went in the arm-band-thing.  It had two Velcro fasteners and… I could already tell it would take us a while to get the fucking thing on.  If this was something he’d be using, we were gonna be putting this thing on forever because he was shit at directions and I was shit with how things went together.  I’d have to ask Ethan to show me again. 

“How does that feel?” Ethan asked.

Rob tested the movement, his brow slightly furrowed, “Why didn’t you give me this before?”

Ethan chuckled, “It’s more support than you need for your injury in day-to-day activities.”

“Still!”

Ethan smiled, “Your injury isn’t a typical sports-type injury.  The braces that we have are usually catered more to shoulder dislocation or rotator cuff injuries, things like that.  You really don’t need this unless you’re going to be doing something more intensely physical.”

I snorted.  I couldn’t help myself.  Rob shot me a look.  I think he would have been much more giggly with me if he hadn’t thought Ethan was holding out on the good therapy equipment. 

“That’s bullshit.  I’ve been uncomfortable for months.  Why didn’t we try something like this earlier?”

Ethan shrugged, “Probably because you don’t normally tell me when you’re uncomfortable.”

I snickered again, and I think I was probably only making things worse, but I couldn’t help myself.  Rob looked so… petulant and annoyed that he was just amusing.  And Ethan totally had him pegged; it wasn’t like Rob could really counter to that.  He had a bad habit of not saying shit, so he had only himself to blame. 

So he irritably said, “Well, I want one now.”  Except it came out much more childish, and kind of whiny. 

Ethan smiled and moved toward the door.  “You can have that one.  Put your shirt back on and meet me in the room next door.”

I smiled as Rob tested the movement again with the brace and got this really adorable and awe-like glint is his eye.  He was smiling slightly, like the kid who just got the cake, and when he caught me watching, he faltered slightly but he couldn’t wipe the grin completely from his face.

“Does it feel good?” I asked.

He nodded, grabbing his shirt from the table and waiting until I joined him to walk to the room next to us.  This was obviously a boxing/sparring/training room; mats on the floor to protect athletes from the hard concrete, a boxing ring off in the corner, a section of different kinds of punching bags, and other equipment were scattered around the room.  Rob and I walked over to where Ethan was waiting, a counter with boxing gloves and tape and helmets and other protective gear behind him. 

Ethan pointed to the countertop, “Let me see your hands.”

Rob did as he asked, placing his hands on the counter, and Ethan pulled a pair of boxing gloves down from the shelves.  “Now we tape your hands,” he continued and started telling Rob about how he was doing that.  I hoped Rob caught more of it than I did; I was too busy watching Ethan’s hands wrap the tape around Rob’s.  Ethan’s hands were easily twice the size of Rob’s, but it was Rob’s hands that distracted me.  They always did.  What?  Boxing could be very sexual!  Ethan was also relating why hands were taped while boxing, too, which I was sure Rob had certainly heard before when he’d dabbled in boxing for New Moon, but he didn’t stop Ethan or interject, he just nodded in the appropriate places and flexed his fingers under the tape.  Thy went through a few stretches first, which I noticed Rob seemed to be able to do a lot easier with the brace and his hand taped.  There was just additional support there that he’d never had before, like a guide, a place to trace and begin. 

I sat down to watch and I was actually quite impressed with Rob.  And I didn’t mean that in a condescending way.  He wasn’t the most athletic, no, but he could hold his own, and he wasn’t nearly as bad as he made himself out to be.  And he’d obviously remembered shit from the first time he’d done this.  He had the stance down, which for some reason really impressed Ethan, and he responded to instructions the second after Ethan had called them out.  Rob totally knew what he was doing, and moreover, I think he was having fun with it.  Or it was cathartic.  Either way, it didn’t make much of a difference to me if it helped.  I could tell Ethan was genuinely pleased when he told Rob to stop, and I think Rob was pretty damn pleased, too.  I was pleased.  We were all fucking pleased. 

“Rob,” Ethan said, his arm going around his shoulder, patting it, “I do not mind saying, I think that was the most engaged you’ve ever been in any type of therapy we’ve done.  If I would have known 

that all it was going to take to get you involved was to let you beat something, I would have done it a long time ago.”

Rob chuckled slightly, “Yeah, you just should have asked me about my violent tendencies.”

He held out his hands and Ethan untied the gloves, sliding them off.  They hadn’t really worked long, but this wasn’t even a scheduled therapy day, and I was sure Ethan didn’t want him to overdo it the first time either.  Ethan unwrapped his hands and grabbed them before Rob could pull away, inspecting them.  “I don’t trust you,” Ethan said, winking.

Rob let him look them over, “No damage, I think we’re good.”

“All right,” Ethan said, letting him go.  “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.  We can start incorporating more boxing into your routine, starting with tomorrow’s appointment, if you want.  And the brace has this built-in pocket for either hot or cold packs, whichever feels better – I’d take advantage of that today if we’re going to do more tomorrow.  It’s probably the most exercise and impact that your shoulder’s gotten.”

Rob nodded, “Ok.  See you tomorrow, then.  Thanks for letting us just drop in.”

“Anytime.”

I thanked Ethan as well and we started back to the car.  Rob hadn’t said anything and I found myself extremely curious if the boxing had helped with the anger.  By the time we were in the car and on the road again, I couldn’t contain myself, “So?”

“What?”

“Did it help?”

“I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I don’t really know.  I mean… I guess it did.”

“So, are you gonna stick with this?” I asked next.

He shrugged, “I guess.”

“I think you should.”

“I think it’s just more exercise and more soreness later.”

I sighed, “Well, you can’t seem to reach a happy medium with the anger.  You can’t go off on paps, Rob.”

“I know that.  I won’t.”

“You will.  If you don’t do this, if you don’t balance and you don’t find an outlet, you will.  We just have to keep adjusting, adding and eliminating until it’s level.  Until everything is level.”

“I don’t know that I need to box to find that level.”

“Are you less angry?”

He chuckled, “Yeah.  I’m exhausted.”

“Good.”

“So the plan is just to exhaust the anger out of me?  I mean, I can do that on my own.”

I stopped walking and he turned to face me.  “What?” he asked.

“If you don’t channel the anger and we’re in a crowd, eventually, I’ll get hurt.”

“What?” his brow furrowed.  “I won’t let that happen.”

I shook my head, “You won’t be able to stop it.  You’ll wind up going off on some asshole that says something to you and I’ll get lost in the shuffle.  You’ll be too busy pounding your frustration out on them and I’ll be left alone.”

Now… that was probably not entirely true.  It was possible, of course, but it was always possible.  So I was playing slightly dirty here, but if it kept him safe, I’d play dirty forever.  The only thing that would make him stop was me.  The only thing that would make him listen was to make it about me, about my safety, my well-being.  He’d do it for me. 

He considered that for a moment, but it didn’t take him long to decide.  “Ok.  You’re right.  I’ll learn to channel it.”

I smiled, “Thank you.”

We didn’t really talk about it any more on the way home.  We didn’t really talk about anything.  I was happy that he was going to get help for the anger and he was tired from the boxing.  He dozed lightly for the last half of the ride home, not really out but not really awake either, some hazy spot in between, and I was just quiet so he could rest.  Quiet was always welcome after a departure like the one from the set earlier. 

He woke enough to get inside when we were home and I made sure he ate at least a little something, forcing liquids because I knew they were probably more important after any type of therapy, and then asked him if he wanted to take a shower.

“You afraid I’m gonna fall asleep in there?” he asked, grinning, his eyelids heavy already.

I shrugged, “Maybe.  I’d also like to wash them off.”

He stood immediately and held out his hand, no question as to the ‘them’ I was referring to.  “Let’s go, then.”

I took his hand and we went straight to the shower, the water pouring down on us a few minutes later. 

He pressed a kiss into my shoulder, his body flush with mine, his arms around my waist.  “You know I’d never do anything that would let them hurt you, right?”

I nodded, “I know.”

“I wouldn’t have let it get that far.  I mean, I’m glad you thought of this and I can start now… but I never would have let it hurt you.”

I nodded again, turning my head to look at him sideways, “I know.”

He nodded back, another kiss to my shoulder and we just stood under the warm spray, letting the water wash off the impurity and the pollution that the world of the paparazzi created.  Here, there was only warmth and understanding and love and the assurance of support. 

“They have no respect for boundaries, but you do have nice tits,” he said quietly, and I chuckled.   “And you did look good today…” Another kiss pressed to my shoulder, “And you do give good head… and you are fucking me, so they weren’t inaccurate on any counts.”

“Oh, well then, by all means, they should print that.”

He shook his head, pulling me closer to him.  “No.  That’s just mine.  They can’t have that.  That’s the biggest problem I have.  They want what’s not theirs to take.  They have no respect.  They have no right.”

He kept wavering so much between being angry and not.  It was obvious to me that he was struggling with it, but I wasn’t sure he even noticed.  Just there, in the span of less than a minute, he’d gone from joking right back to the anger.  I wasn’t sure pointing it out would help or hinder.  And tonight, pointing it out would only make him more frustrated, more alienated, and because he was just as stubborn as I was, it’d probably make him balk at using the boxing for that purpose.  So I didn’t say anything, I didn’t disagree or agree with him, and the anger melted away again, swirling away with the rest of the water for the night. 

The problem was that anger didn’t swirl away forever, it was a living thing, and it was alive and well and kicking around in Rob.  And he didn’t have the control over it that he thought he had.  I hoped that boxing would be the thing that allowed him to master it. 

~ ~ ~

So, boxing became something Rob did nearly every day.  After a few more therapy sessions where Ethan helped him incorporate it into his normal routine, he wanted to keep it up, and that made me ecstatically happy.  The brace also became something of daily routine – it went on when he dressed and, at least for the shoulder, it helped to stabilize and it allowed him to box.  So Ethan had a bag delivered and they modified the routine for home so Rob could do it without boxing gloves that required a second party to tie.  He became an expert at wrapping his own hands, and the weaving and the interlacing of the material fascinated me endlessly.  It was just so fluid and precise and it was, ya know, Rob’s fingers.  It was just… it was damn hot. 

We set the bag up in the guest room and sometimes he’d be in there for what seemed like hours, reemerging all sweaty, his short hair plastered to his forehead, his shirt damp, and his knuckles all bruised and scraped by the time he was done.  He never said anything about his knuckles, and he never complained because he just did it again the next day.  So I started stopping him after his shower, or after we showered together, and I’d simply hand him an ice pack and he’d dip his head slightly and say ‘thanks’ quietly and we’d just go about the rest of our day.  When I was on set and he was alone, I often wondered if he still did that, if he went and got one, but I never asked. 

It wasn’t unusual for me to find him in there when I came home, or to find him just finished, or just started.  I had no real gauge for how often he did it when I wasn’t there, or how much time he spent either, but when I’d peek in the room and he hadn’t noticed me yet, it was obvious that he knew exactly what he was doing.  He’d improved an already intermediate skill into something much closer to expert and I seriously feared that he’d suddenly want to take up sparring as well for a time.  But the more he did it, the more I realized it was just for him – it was like music – something to follow, to learn, to advance in, to perfect. 

I’d gotten home a lot earlier than I’d anticipated today.  Things had just fallen into place on set and scenes were completed quickly and efficiently.  For some reason, I knew he was going to be in the middle of his routine when I pulled into the garage.  And it was evident from the sounds coming from the guest room that I was correct, so I didn’t disturb him.  I puttered around the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher and pulling out some frozen meat to thaw for dinner.  He had either been in there awhile by the time I’d gotten home, or this hadn’t been a long session.  I sat on the counter by the sink, watching him as he made his way to the fridge, wiping his face on his shirt, his hair all wet and sticking up.  His hands were still wrapped and he grabbed a bottle of Gatorade from the fridge, tipping his head back and drinking right from the large container, no glass, per usual.  I watched his Adam’s apple bob with the drinking – large gulps like a fucking Gatorade commercial, only about ten times hotter.  He stopped and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and then turned and finally noticed me sitting there.

“Christ, Kristen!” he said, almost losing his grip on the bottle. 

I smirked, shrugging, “I didn’t want to disturb your workout.  And I was enjoying the drinking.”

He smirked back at me, “Did you now?”

I nodded. 

He put the bottle down on the counter, “When did you get home?”

“Just a little while ago.  We got to leave early; everything went really well on set today.”

He nodded, turning and wiping his face against his shirt again, catching the stray rivulets of sweat that were running down his face.  “Cool.”

I shook my head, “No, you actually look rather hot.”

His head tipped to the side, “I am kinda warm…”

Let’s just say… I was admiring from the counter.  He was wearing a sleeveless shirt and it was tight in all the right places.  His shoulders were getting incredibly well-defined, and his biceps, Christ, they were near illegal.  His chest was heaving slightly, still from the exertion, and light material of the shirt was clinging and hanging just right.  He knew it, too.  Because the bastard leaned against the counter, his arms out and the muscles flexing, and I had to fight the urge to moan at him.

He moved a second later, over to where I was sitting on the counter, and stepped between my legs, which of course parted happily for him.  His hands landed on the counter next to me, his forearms framing my hips, and the heat radiating off of him was almost tangible.  His whole body was nothing but warmth and heat and fire and energy.  His face was only inches from mine, but neither of us had moved any closer.  I think we were both waiting for the other to give in.  I watched a bead of sweat form at his hairline and start to trail down his temple.  I let it get as far as his cheekbone and then my mouth was over it, the saltiness bursting on my tongue. 

And that was pretty much all she wrote.   Fuck it.  I’d give in.  That fine and perilous edge of tension that was lingering in the air dissipated in an instant and my legs wrapped around his thighs as he pulled me closer to the edge of the counter until my ass was half on, half hanging off and my hands ran up his damp arms to his neck, my fingers curling in the wet ends of the short hair that resided there. 

I pulled his mouth to mine, fusing them together, and our tongues were in an immediate duel, anxious and reckless and impulsive, my fingers kneading at the back of his head, his hands palming at my ass, kneading in almost the same pattern as my hands on him.  He pulled me off of the counter, holding me midair for a moment, our mouths still attached to one another, before he set me down. 

He said nothing, just started unbuttoning my jeans and the minute his hands were there, mine moved to his waistband and untied the drawstring on his shorts.  I shimmied my jeans and underwear off of my hips while pushing his shorts down.  I didn’t get to finish because he set me back on the counter abruptly, latching onto the clothing still around my thighs and yanking them off, throwing them vaguely backwards.  Not to be outdone, I hooked my toes in the shorts and pushed them down until they were far enough to fall on their own. 

His hands were similarly back on my ass, pulling me close enough that I’d be lined up, and he let me position him, his hands busy and his face so close to mine, his breath erratic and fast, and he groaned the same breathy way when I touched him and stroked a few times before settling him at my entrance.  He wasted no time then, pushing in and pulling me toward him, sliding inside so easily.  I was so ready for him, wet and slick and slippery from the moment he walked out into the kitchen.  There was just no other way this was ever going to go.  I’d wanted him from that first sight. 

He panted in my ear as he shifted closer, how we were gonna get any closer I didn’t know, but he kept drawing me in, dragging me into him more, and his hair was so wet, sweat from his temples rubbing against my face, making it damp and, shit, he smelled… delicious.  Hot and exciting, and rich and spicy and salty, and he probably thought there was something wrong with me, but I kept dipping to inhale him by his neck and my tongue wouldn’t stop licking his skin, like I was some fucking animal enamored with the scent of their mate.  And, shit, I totally was.  It didn’t help any that he was just getting hotter, he was just producing more, another layer of perspiration breaking out because we were so fucking close and in each other’s space and stimulated and impulsive.  It just made it even more aromatic.  Like the room was filled with him and I couldn’t help but be even more encouraged when he kept doing the same fucking thing – inhaling my hair and taking in my scent while he pushed inside me and kept tugging me on him. 

He lifted me again, off the counter, but kept himself in me and let gravity sink me down on him. My hands moved to his shoulders and then to cup his neck, surprised but trying to stay balanced, and he just held me there, suspended but completely full, and the air so thick and heady as he brought his mouth to mine, and the minute mine was on his again he groaned and started moving me.  He shifted me up – his arms felt so sturdy, his body so much more imposing – and it was one of those times where I felt so much smaller than normal.  It wasn’t like I was unaware that I was actually quite small in stature, and he wasn’t exactly huge in terms of his height, he was tall and lean, so it wasn’t that I… it didn’t really matter, he seemed really huge at the moment, and perhaps it was the perspective, or the fact that he kept shifting and moving me up and off his cock and then letting my body weight drive me back on him.  But, shit, I felt… I felt tiny, but so safe.  I felt like he was wrapping all around me, holding me while letting gravity drive him inside. 

He turned and set me on the edge of the other counter, swiping off the contents, and had he not hovered over me and pushed me to my back, I might have given more thought to what he’d just knocked off all over the floor, but with his hips shoving up and his cock pushing so deep inside, I didn’t really give a shit.  I think I would have been more amused, giggling even, if this hadn’t turned abruptly serious and not flirty like it’d started.  But then, it normally happened that way.  No matter how fun or light the sex started, it normally turned this way, ambitious and determined, and compelling and meaningful. 

His hands landed next to my head, still wrapped, and my arms wound inside of his, pulling at his sides under his shirt because neither of us had bothered to take them off; only the essential articles were removed.  He leaned over me more, dropping to his forearms, his fingers weaving into my hair, his forehead near mine, his mouth latching onto mine and dropping down to kiss my neck, darting his tongue into my ear, my fingers scraping over the heat of his skin. 

I struggled with where to put my legs, where the best or most efficient place was.  The way he was leaning over me already meant he was grinding himself into my clit, sparks of pleasure and flickers of sensation bouncing all over my body, but the placement of my legs created completely opposing reactions and responses.  Dangling them over the counter edge meant more friction, more tightness; wrapping them around his waist meant more ease in the thrusting, less friction and tightness but more depth, more… just more.  More of him. 

I think he thought that I was actually having trouble with my legs, like I was having a difficult time keeping them wrapped around him and that’s why I kept dropping them every so often and letting them hang down.  Truth was, I just like the differences.  I liked the way he felt, alternately like he was pounding through me and then was pushing against more resistance.  I figured he’d enjoy that, too.   And maybe he had but was just getting to the point where we needed to finish.  It really didn’t matter.  I was completely happy with whatever the fuck he wanted to do.  So when his hands shifted and he held my legs up at the knees instead, and he pulled back, I was entirely ok with that as well.  Because the wrapped hands just… ya know, did shit to me, and then they were not only roaming my body or combing through my hair or positioned next to me, but actually holding my legs, forcing them up, and he used those to maneuver me, too, pulling me back until my ass was literally almost hanging off the fucking counter, and his thrusts became relentless and more vigorous and shit.  I just held onto his forearms and enjoyed the ride. 

This angle, with me hanging off the counter, made him push in a completely different way again and I let go of one of his arms long enough to rub over my clit, tingling and prickling with that need to be stimulated, the need to be touched.  It really didn’t take long after that.  The tingling just amplified and boiled until it fractured and the orgasm surged through me, my body clamping down on his, and I felt him stop mid-thrust and then shove forward, releasing inside with my climax.  His hands let go of my legs and moved to support me so I didn’t literally slip off the damn counter.  He shifted us up, his head dropping to my chest awkwardly, and my hands moved to his head, brushing through his hair as we just caught our breaths. 

I grabbed the bottom of his shirt and started pulling it up and he moved sluggishly to help me, lifting his arms and wriggling out of it.  Once I had it off, I wiped off his face and ran the material over his head and neck as he smiled at me lazily, pressing a kiss to my breasts in thanks.  I realized two things.  One, taking off the shirt left him in exactly two articles: the brace and the hand wraps.  Two, that did nothing for my continued amped up state.  I wanted him again.  It was worse with the shirt off because before it was just the nice hint of definition and the way his shirt clung to him all damp and delicious, without the shirt it just became more real.  The definition was reality, visible.  The hard lines of his shoulders, the round bulge to his biceps, the outlines of his pecs and his chest.  Goddamn it.

It was my own fault.  I had suggested boxing. 

And I kinda liked this.  I always did.  That desperate feeling.  The feelings of need and want and mine and must and have and now.  It was different than making love with him.  That was always great, too, and it wasn’t as though there wasn’t a sense of need or want then, but… this was just different.  The frenzy.  The bubbling feeling of combustion if there was no completion.  The need for climax and the relief of the tension.  It didn’t really go away with him; it was always there under the surface between us.  But it came out fuming sometimes, this raging and searing fire that wouldn’t be put out, wouldn’t respond to any extinguishment until the want was satisfied. 

He pulled back, leaning against the counter, and he looked tired.  Which kind of made me feel bad because I wasn’t done, but, I mean… he wiped his brow with the back of his hand, still wrapped, and he must have had no idea how fucking edible he looked there.  His thighs, strong and defined, even the brace, black and austere and dark like night against his pale skin and, I dare say, that skin that was glistening with that fine sheen of perspiration and, fucking hell, don’t make Edward references right now because sparkly is just not a sexy term unless, well, unless it was the man standing in front of me. 

I think I might have whimpered slightly here, his cock half hard and bobbing slightly, covered in the same sheen of wetness, but different because that was me, he was covered in me, bathed in the two of us, a few stray beads of semen still dotting the tip, and there might not be any more standing sex or counter sex, but damn if my mouth wasn’t on him like a motherfucking predator, engulfing him and completely taking him by surprise as he’d leaned there, all bashful kind of smirk and no fucking idea how sexy he looked. 

He nearly collapsed to the floor, I think, when I took him in my mouth, but he managed to hold himself up against the counter as I sucked him in, hollowing my cheeks and demanding with my tongue.  He was hard again instantly, the taste of him addictive, saltiness here, too, like nothing else would satisfy me like the taste of his skin or the taste of his release, my essence mixed in like it was the lifeblood of my entire existence.  Shit. 

Despite holding onto the counter, I got the feeling he was having a hard time staying vertical if his shaking thighs were any indication.  I still felt the need to grab his ass and hold him to me, his cock hitting the back of my throat while I massaged and kneaded his cheeks. 

“Shit,” he gasped, “I… Kris, I gotta sit down.”

I slowly eased off of his cock, licking at the tip and watching as he seriously looked capable of collapse.  I chuckled and grabbed his hand, letting him sit down, and the minute he was down I was pushing him back on the floor amidst all the shit he’d shoved off the counter.  I snorted when a few random papers kept sticking to his back, the sweaty sheen was definitely not going away, and I took notice of the other papers all strewn about, a few pens, cups, and, thankfully, no broken glass.  I giggled when his hand darted out to move a spoon from under his shoulder and then my mouth was back on him, his hips arching and his chest rumbling with restrained moans.  I backed off only when my need to have him inside me reached epically essential proportions.  It was like a basic need, like food and water, and having Rob inside me, and the pursuit of happiness.  It all went together. 

I settled over him, straddling his hips, and grabbed his shirt to shove under his neck when his head was arching somewhat painfully.  He smiled at me gently and I lowered my full weight onto his hips, just sitting there a minute and enjoying the view, my knees digging into the tile and grout while his chest rose and fell and his hands cupped around my waist.  I rose to take him inside and he slipped in so easily again, still stretching me, but a fluid stretch, his hands digging in, his eyes slipping closed, and I’d never get enough of that, never get enough of the feeling of him filling me, completing some whole that I couldn’t achieve myself alone.  I spread my hands over those distinct pecs, flicking my thumbs over his nipples and, this time, I think he enjoyed the ride.  I wanted this as easy as it could be for him, so if I wanted him to do something, I told him, otherwise I just shifted and moved and clenched, and he caressed and pulled me forward, and we both worked to push me down on him and his hips pumped into me, and yes, sometimes I wondered how we didn’t explode.  Or implode.  Or detonate.  But I suppose we did.  Each time.  Every time.  Just in different ways. 

He came first, spilling inside me and grunting my name like it was a spiritual mantra.  I came this time clenching my bent legs around his body, the damn tile completely unforgiving and I didn’t care at all.  I slumped forward on him, shifting off my sore knees, and his hands moved to hold me.  His body was still so hot, the flush all over from the middle of his chest on up.

I sat up and looked around the kitchen.  “God, I am so going to have to sterilize this kitchen.”

He chuckled and smirked at me, but said nothing else.

I eased off of him and he groaned at the loss, still lying there when I stood up.  I squatted down, “Come on, let’s shower and then I’ll clean up.”

He shook his head, “I’m good.”

I snorted, “You can’t stay on the floor.  It’s cold down there.  And your back won’t like you.”

He waved me off, “I don’t have the energy to move, much less take a shower.  And I’m hot, so the cold is good right now.”

I ran my hand over his head, “How about a bath, then?”

He shook his head.  “I’m fine here.  Just leave me here for a while.”

“I am not leaving you to sleep on the hard floor, Rob.”

His eyes were closed, though, like he was actually serious about sleeping on the fucking floor.  I pulled at his hand, “Come on, let’s at least get you to the bed, ok?”  I pulled some more and he groaned but sat up with me.  We shuffled, we did not walk, to the bedroom. 

I was rather worried about his completely reduced energy level.  He plopped into bed, his head hit the pillow, and he was out.  I chuckled and reached for his hands, unwrapping them, and was amused again by the sheer volume of fabric it took to wrap hands and the way it weaved, intricate and almost delicate while being extremely… male.  I scolded myself and tried to stop thinking about it, tried to stop the thoughts about the hands the wrappings were attached to, the other thing that drove me absolutely nuts.  Analyzing would not do me any good here, he was all sleepy and sacked out, energy depleted, and he needed to rest instead of engaging me in another round. 

His knuckles looked sore; it must have been just as energetic a workout session.  I kissed each one before laying it on the bed and starting the other one, my gaze alternating from the hand I was unwrapping to his face, watching him sleep, my hand darting out to run through his hair, the dampness covering his entire body.  The brace didn’t help any.  It provided support he loved, but it also kicked up the heat a notch, it kept heat in and was comforting and constricting, it was pleasant but it was also form-fitting, and meant to stay in place.  It almost cinched to the skin like latex or a wet suit.  The knuckles on this hand were similarly bruised, like layers upon layers of bruises on top of another, but it was red, too, slightly swollen, and one knuckle looked to have split at some point, broken open, and small dots of blood were on the wrapping. 

I got a washcloth from the bathroom and ran it under the faucet, wiping him down and covering him with the blankets.  I cleaned up the knuckle and got ice packs from the freezer, new ones that I’d picked up the other day that had Velcro strips that kept the packs in place, and put them over his hands.  He never stirred, his breathing even and slow and deep.  The level of trust he has for me takes my breath away sometimes.  He knew that he was safe and well taken care of.  And he never questioned that.  I climbed into bed then, my forehead pressing into his on the pillow, snuggling my body close to his, enjoying the heat and avoiding contact with the ice packs.  He sighed and nuzzled against me, like he knew I hadn’t been there but was now, and I was sure he really did.  I always knew when he was near like that, too.  I closed my eyes and let his breathing lull me to sleep with him. 

When I woke, he was still dead to the world.  And I felt kinda bad again.  Because, yes, he boxed and exerted and exercised and shit, but I knew he napped after that, too.  And I’d thrown quite a wrench in the napping part and now his body was trying to make up for that.  So I slipped out of bed and showered, letting him sleep awhile longer before I ran out to get food. 

He was still out when I got back.  So I roused him gently, and he eventually came around, grunting and shifting and rubbing at his eyes and looking like a toddler crawling out of bed from an afternoon nap.  An extremely well-defined, hot, naked toddler. 

“Here, I went to get food,” I said, setting the pizza box on his lap.

“Mmm… thanks.” 

I handed him a bottle.

“Beer, too?”

I nodded.  “I have candy, too.”

He smiled lazily, “Well… I must have been an awfully good boy to get pizza and beer and candy.”

I kissed him impulsively and he chuckled when I backed up.

“I love you,” I added.

“I love you, too,” he said, his brow furrowing.  “Everything’s ok, right?  You’re not trying to butter me up with pizza and beer and –“

“And candy,” I added.

“– and candy and then drop a bomb, are you?”

I smiled, taking his face in my hands, “No, everything is fine.  You’re just wonderful, and I love you.   

And I felt bad because after the boxing, I basically made you just run two more rounds.”

His eyebrow rose, “You’re apologizing for sex?  Seriously?  You think I care how tired I am when I just got laid?  Twice?”

I snorted, “I guess not.”

“I mean, reward me with pizza and beer any –“

“And candy,” I reminded.

“And candy any time you want, but… don’t ever apologize.”

I smiled, “Ok, then.  Hurry up and eat so we can have sex in the shower.”

He laughed, “Let’s stick with the bath, then,” he said, starting to eat. 

“It’s a deal,” I agreed, grabbing a piece of pizza. 

I was happy with where we were; with the level he’d reached in just the short time he’d started boxing regularly.  He’d definitely leveled off a lot in terms of the highs and lows of what I could visibly see of his anger.  So I thought the boxing had been a good choice, and it was something he genuinely seemed to enjoy.  He wasn’t bottling and destroying rooms, and I was less concerned about him going off on a random pap in the middle of the street.  I could still see the struggle sometimes, but he was better at recognizing when it was there and we needed to get rid of it.  I was proud of him constantly.  All the little steps that I could see adding up to larger ones.

Chapter 1  Chapter 2  Chapter 3  Chapter 4  Chapter 5  Chapter 6  Chapter 7a  Chapter 7b  Chapter 8 Chapter 9a  Chapter 9b  Chapter 10  Chapter 11  Chapter 12  Chapter 13  Chapter 14  Chapter 15 Chapter 16  Chapter 17a  Chapter 17b  Chapter 18a  Chapter 18b  Chapter 19a  Chapter 19b  Chapter 19c  Chapter 20  Chapter 21  Chapter 22  Chapter 23  Chapter 24  Chapter 25  Chapter 26  Chapter 27  Chapter 28  Chapter 29  Chapter 30  Chapter 31  Chapter 32  Chapter 33  Chapter 34  Chapter 35  Chapter 36   Chapter 37  Chapter 38  Chapter 39  Chapter 40