Well, it was like this. I dragged, I mean, I helped him to my writing cabin while he was still sorta, you know, out of it, and I really was awfully helpful, holding on to him and feeling of him there in the flesh with me, through his soft blue shirt, the way I’d imagined so many nights before, as he made his way up the one step onto the smooth-planked porch, and then on inside.
And I gave him some cool, cool water and I said he could rest up there with me until help arrived. He smiled a grateful smile with that beautiful bowed lower lip of his all hurt and needing to be loved on. Then he nestled down in my big bed and passed on out again.
I fed him chocolate-covered cherries for sustenance when he came up to find some consciousness; they kept him sugar-highed and happy, and a little sleepy, too, which was, after all, what I wanted, until I was ready for him to wake up the rest of the way.
After he’d woken up enough to notice the soft cords of golden satin wrapped right around his wrists, I leaned over and I kissed his ear, and I licked on it a little bit, too, because men do like that when it tingles like a tickle, when they fight the gorgeous torture of getting those nerve endings all taut and tense, and the tension traveling downward to the core, as it were, of the male parts that matter. “Don’t be messin’ with a Southern woman, Sparky. ‘Cause that’ll never do,” I said.
“Wha…What do you mean,” my baby said, tensing hard in all the right places.
“I’m sayin’ it’s time you reconsidered all those well-formed words I’ve sent your way.”
“When is help arriving?” he moaned.
“Oh,” I moaned right back at him, “it’ll be coming soon.”