Chapter 7

"Can I make a suggestion?"

"Sure."

"Start by not laughing at him at inconvenient times."

That was J. Still teasing me on the phone.

"Thanks a lot, genius. I had figured that one out, all on my own even."

If I was writing this in an email, I would have inserted one of those little smiley faces with the tongue sticking out. As it was, I had to make do with sticking my tongue out at the telephone receiver instead. It wasn't quite as satisfying, somehow.

"J, you're really not helping me, are you? Look, I've got an hour to get ready before Steven comes to pick me up; I've got to go. I'll call you later, okay?"

Hanging up the phone and getting ready to swing myself out of bed, I completely forgot about my sprained ankle. Forgot, that is, until I tried to stand on it. The pain lancing through my leg was almost crippling, and I sank back onto the bed. 'These things always hurt more the next day, dumb-ass, ' I reminded myself. I reached over, grabbed my crutches, and swung out of bed again, this time keeping the sore foot off the ground.

I made my way into the bathroom and downed some Advil, before making the mistake of looking in the mirror. If I thought my hair was wild before I cried myself to sleep, it was tame compared to the extreme frizz and curls that wound their way randomly around my head. To add to the attractiveness of that, my nose and cheek were quite a dark blue after my little spill the night before. I had bags under my eyes, and the eyes themselves were bloodshot. What a sight!

I dragged my sorry ass into the shower, and allowed the warm water to wash away some of my aches, even if it couldn't wash away my bigger problems. I thoroughly conditioned my hair, hoping to detangle it when I got done in the shower. I hated having to stand on one leg in the shower; with my coordination, it just wasn't safe. But it was all coming back to me from previous injuries, and I finished getting clean without incident.

Shaving was a different story. I managed to shave the injured leg quite easily, by propping it up on the edge of the bathtub, like I normally would. My armpits were also equally simple. However, shaving my 'good' leg proved to be much more difficult. I tried again and decided I was not going to be able to stand on only the sprained ankle. I attempted to shave by bending at the waist and shaving my leg while I was standing on it, but it proved much more complicated than it looked. Not only did I feel like I would drown as the water ran down my back and over my face, I swore as I cut myself, not once but twice. I ended up turning off the shower, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, and shaving with just the bathtub running. Putting generous amounts of baby oil on my legs to prevent razor burn, I gingerly stood up.

I stepped out of the shower, carefully, and dried off. I wrapped the towel around myself securely, and hobbled into my room to consider what to wear. The cool air of my apartment made my nipples poke out, which had the added effect of rubbing them against the texture of the towel. I settled onto the edge of my bed, and the adjustment of the towel against my breasts made me gasp a little. After the frustration of the evening before, my body was more than ready, and began screaming for attention.

I considered ignoring it, but part of me was convinced that if I found the release I was craving, I might be more able to keep my head with Steven. That part won. I unwrapped the towel and swung my legs up onto the bed, my wet hair splayed carelessly across my pillow. A couple of gentle tugs on my now very erect nipples was all I could take, and my body demanded more. Almost unconsciously my hands slipped down, across my damp belly and between my thighs. I was desperate suddenly, my hips bucking up to meet my questing fingers. Ignoring the slow build up I usually needed, I spread my labia with one hand, while the other hand sought out the hard little nub that was so eager for contact.

Masturbation for me has always been more an exercise of the mind than the body; this was no exception. Images of Steven flashed through my head; I recalled the words he whispered into my ear in front of the television the night before, his breath hot on my neck. The memory of a half-naked Steven, above me, pressing me into the bed as he kissed me and we thrust our hips together sped up the process even more. I was already soaking wet down there - leftovers from the middle of the night activities or perhaps the shower, I assumed - and the slipperiness of my natural lubrication made sparks jump across my clitoris with even the gentlest of touches.

Gasping for breath and moaning his name, I came in a gush of fluid that would have left a wet spot on my sheets if not for the now-forgotten towel beneath my bottom. I continued teasing my clit lightly for a moment or two afterwards, enjoying the shudders that passed through me with every sideswipe. I rolled lazily to the side, and caught a glimpse of my alarm clock.

"Shit! Shit shit shit." I swore, swinging myself up and back onto my feet in a hurry.

I grabbed a pair of panties and a bra as I hurried - at top hobbling speed - into the bathroom. I ran a washcloth under the tap, and hurriedly cleaned up the remains of my orgasm, toweling myself dry for the second time in one afternoon. I slapped on some cover-up to try to pretend I hadn't face-planted myself on Steven's sidewalk the day before, threw on some antiperspirant, and jumped into my underwear. A pair of capri pants and a cute blouse went on over top, and I was working the tangles out of my hair as my buzzer rang.

"Hello?"

"It's me. You ready?"

"Not quite, Steven. Come on up and make yourself at home, okay?"

I buzzed him in, and limped back to the bathroom to finish my hair. A little bit of mousse and some scrunching, and it looked acceptable in my eyes. 'Thank God for curly hair, ' I thought, not for the first time. I quickly wrapped my now very bruised and swollen ankle, and grabbed one crutch as I headed out of the bathroom to see what Steven was up to.

Between the carpeted floor in my apartment and Steven's preoccupation with some of the crystal knickknacks on my shelves, he apparently didn't hear me approaching. I was almost glad; it gave me an opportunity to study him from behind, uninterrupted. I admired his short brown hair, his broad shoulders and the biceps I knew from experience were incredibly strong. My eyes traveled down to his narrow, firm ass that looked especially good in a pair of somewhat tight fitting jeans. The corner of my lips quirked upwards in appreciation, but I was frozen mid-smile when he spoke quietly.