"So do you," he replied, his hands roaming my back, tracing the muscles there with appreciative fingers. "Better than I imagined."
The thought that he had imagined this—imagined us together—sent another surge of heat through me.
It was madness, this connection forming between us in the span of a few hours, madness born of extraordinary circumstances, of danger and drugs and unexpected physical responses. But in that moment, with pleasure building toward release, I couldn't bring myself to care about rationality.
Connor's breathing grew more ragged, his movements more urgent. I could feel his body tensing beneath mine, on the edge of release.
"Julian," he gasped, his hands gripping my shoulders with surprising strength. "I'm going to—"
"Yes," I encouraged, increasing the pace of my hand. "Let go. Let me see you."
He came with a cry that might have been my name, his body arching beautifully beneath mine. The sight of him lost in pleasure, combined with the physical sensation of his release, pushed me over the edge I'd thought forever beyond my reach.
My own climax hit with the force of a revelation, pleasure searing through nerve pathways I'd been told were irreparably damaged. For a blinding moment, I was nothing but sensation—no past, no future, just the perfect present of release after years of resignation.
When awareness returned, I found myself collapsed half on top of Connor, both of us breathing heavily. I should havemoved, should have given him space, but I couldn't bring myself to break contact just yet.
His arms encircled me, holding me close with a tenderness that threatened to undo me more thoroughly than the physical release had.
We lay in silence for several minutes, the only sound our gradually slowing breaths. Finally, Connor shifted beneath me, his hand coming up to brush hair from my forehead with unexpected gentleness.
"That was..." he started, then seemed to struggle for words.
"Unexpected," I supplied, my voice rough.
He laughed softly, the sound vibrating through his chest against mine. "I was going to say 'amazing,' but 'unexpected' works too."
Amazing. The simple assessment hit me harder than I expected. For three years, I'd resigned myself to a life without this particular type of intimacy, had convinced myself it didn't matter, that I could find fulfillment in other areas.
Yet one night with this stranger had shattered those carefully constructed rationalizations, revealing them for the defensive mechanisms they were.
"We should clean up," I said, practicality asserting itself as a shield against the emotions threatening to overwhelm me.
Connor nodded, but made no move to release me from his embrace. Instead, his eyes—clearer now as the drug began to wear off—searched mine with surprising intensity.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"For what?"
"For letting me see you. The real you."
The simple statement pierced through my remaining defenses with surgical precision. How long had it been since anyone had seen past the wheelchair, past the CEO title, past thecarefully constructed facade I presented to the world? How long since I'd allowed anyone to see the vulnerability beneath?
Instead of answering, I leaned down and kissed him again, pouring into the contact all the emotions I couldn't yet voice. His response was immediate and tender, his lips moving against mine with a sweetness that contrasted with our earlier urgency.
When we finally broke apart, a new kind of understanding seemed to hover between us—fragile and unexpected, but undeniably real.
The intensity of our shared pleasure left us both trembling and breathless in each other's arms. I hadn't expected to feel this again—this bone-deep satisfaction, this momentary peace where the constant calculations and analyses that filled my mind were silenced by pure physical sensation.
Connor lay beside me now, his body warm against mine, his breathing gradually slowing as the drug in his system worked its final course.
I studied his face in the dim light, watching as his features softened, the earlier tension melting away as exhaustion claimed him.
I should have felt guilt. By any objective standard, I had taken advantage of someone in an altered state. But the truth was more complex than that simple assessment.
Connor had been the aggressor, the initiator—drugged, yes, but determined in a way that suggested his actions stemmed from genuine desire rather than mere chemical influence.
And my response... that had been entirely unexpected, a physiological impossibility according to every specialist I'd consulted since the accident.
