I almost laughed at the absurdity of it. No one had called me beautiful since the accident. Powerful, yes. Successful, certainly. But beautiful? That word belonged to my past life, before metal and glass had rewritten my future.
"You don't even know me," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
"I know enough." His hands continued their exploration, mapping the contours of my torso with reverent curiosity. "I know you protected me when you didn't have to."
His fingers trailed lower, reaching the waistband of my pajama bottoms, and my breath hitched. But then his pathdiverted, moving to my sides, and I tensed for an entirely different reason.
Connor's hands found the first of my scars—a long, jagged line that curved around my ribs from the surgeries following the accident. I waited for the revulsion, for the pitying look I'd seen too many times.
Instead, his touch became even more gentle, his fingers tracing the raised ridge of tissue with something like fascination.
"What happened?" he asked softly.
"Car accident," I answered, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. I hated discussing it, hated being defined by that single moment of twisted metal and shattered glass. "Three years ago."
He nodded, his expression solemn despite the drug-induced flush on his cheeks. "Is that why...?" His question trailed off, but his glance toward the wheelchair beside the bed completed it clearly enough.
"Yes." One syllable, carrying the weight of everything I'd lost.
I waited for the awkwardness, the stammered apologies, the hasty retreat most people made when confronted with the reality of my condition. Instead, Connor leaned forward and pressed his lips against the scar, a feather-light kiss that stole my breath.
"Thank you," he whispered against my skin.
"For what?" My voice cracked embarrassingly.
"For not being like them." His eyes flicked toward the door, indicating the people who'd been pursuing him. "For helping me. For seeing me."
Something inside me fractured at his words. How long had it been since someone had looked at me and seen just a man, not a set of limitations? How long since I'd allowed myself to be seen?
My hands tightened on his shoulders, torn between the conflicting impulses to push him away and pull him closer. Professional restraint warred with unexpected desire. Ethical concerns battled against the undeniable response of my body.
"This is a mistake," I said, though there was little conviction in my voice.
"Maybe," Connor agreed, his fingers continuing their exploration, tracing another scar that ran across my abdomen. "But it doesn't feel like one."
His touch was electric, igniting sensations I'd thought were lost to me forever. Each brush of his fingers against my skin sent sparks of pleasure radiating outward, culminating in the insistent throb of my unexpected erection. I shifted beneath him, uncomfortable with how comfortable this felt.
"You shouldn't want this," I said, gesturing vaguely to my body, to the wheelchair. "You shouldn't want—"
"You?" he finished, raising an eyebrow. Even drugged, there was a sharpness to him I hadn't expected. "Why not?"
It was a simple question with a complicated answer. Because I was damaged. Because I was broken. Because I'd spent three years rebuilding myself as something separate from desire, something that didn't need or want physical connection.
"Because you don't know what you're asking for," I said finally.
Connor's hands moved to frame my face, his touch unexpectedly tender. "I'm asking for you," he said, his words still slightly slurred but his gaze steady. "Just you."
My professional demeanor—the carefully constructed facade I presented to the world—crumbled visibly under his earnest gaze. I felt my jaw clench, my breathing become shallow and rapid, my knuckles whiten as I gripped his shoulders.
"You can't mean that," I insisted, even as something inside me yearned to believe him.
"Why?" he challenged, his thumbs stroking my cheeks. "Because I'm drugged? Or because you don't think you deserve it?"
His insight was unsettling, cutting too close to truths I preferred not to examine. My grip on his shoulders tightened further, and I felt caught in an impossible position—unable to push him away, unwilling to pull him closer, suspended in a moment of pure indecision.
Connor seemed to sense my internal struggle. He leaned forward slowly, giving me every opportunity to stop him. When his lips finally met mine, the contact was gentle—questioning rather than demanding.
The kiss was nothing like the frantic urgency I'd expected from someone under the influence of drugs. Instead, it held a tenderness that undid me more completely than passion could have. His lips moved against mine with surprising care, as if he was afraid I might break.
