Enjoyed but why?

Was it wrong that I enjoyed my husband touch so much?

Yes, hewas my husband, but still.

My mother had always treated this consumate thing like something only men desired.

Women simply did their duty.

He rubbed my arm and I decided not to think about it too much. I'd do what felt right. I released a small breath, but then my eyes focused on the cut below his ribs.

Blood was trickling from it.

I sat up.

"You're bleeding." I'd forgotten all about it.

"Does it hurt?"

He looked utterly relaxed. He cast his gaze down to his wound.

"Not much. It's nothing. I'm used to it."

I touched the skin below the cut.

"It needs stitches. What if it gets infected?"

"Maybe you'll get lucky and become a young widow."

I glared.

"That's not funny."

Not after what we'd just done. I felt closer to him than ever, and my father would only find me a new husband anyway.

"If it bothers you so much, why don't you grab the first aid kit from the bathroom and bring it to me."

I jumped out of bed and rushed into the bathroom.

"Where is it?"

"In the drawer below the sink."

There wasn't only one first aid kit. There were about two dozens kits.

I picked one and returned to the bedroom but before I joined him in bed, I grabbed my nightgown from the ground and put it on.

He sat against the headboard, still gloriously naked. I concentrated on his torso, embarrassed by his unabashed nakedness.

Fu Shao stroked my cheek when I settled next to him.

"Still too shy to look at me after what happened." He tugged at the hem of my nightgown.

"I liked you better without it."

I pursed my lips.

"What do you want me to do?" I set the first aid kit between us and opened it.

"Many things," He murmured.

I rolled my eyes.

"With your cut."

"There are disinfectant wipes. Clean my wound and I'll prepare the needle."

I ripped open one of the packets.

The overpowering smell of disinfectant clogged my nose. I pulled the wipe out, unfolded it and dabbed it against the cut.

He twitched but didn't make a sound.

"Does it burn?"

"I'm fine," he said simply.

"Wipe harder."

I did, and though he jerked a few times, he never told me to stop.

Eventually I threw the wipe into the trash and leaned back. His pierced his skin with the needle and began stitching himself up, his hands steady and sure.

Watching him made me already feel queasy. I couldn't imagine doing that to myself, but as my eyes wandered over his body and the many scars I realized that it probably wasn't the first time he did this.