Something shifted in his expression—understanding, perhaps, or relief. He lowered his head, pressing his lips to the center of my chest, directly over my heart. The gesture was so unexpectedly tender that I felt my throat tighten, emotion threatening to overwhelm my carefully maintained control.
My hands moved of their own accord, tracing the smooth expanse of his back, the curve of his shoulders, memorizing him through touch alone. This was unfamiliar territory for me—not the physical act, but the vulnerability it exposed.
For three years, I'd kept others at arm's length, using my wheelchair and my wealth as twin barriers against genuineconnection. Yet here was Connor, slipping past those defenses as easily as he'd slipped into my hotel room that first night.
Our bodies moved together with a synchronicity that defied our brief acquaintance, finding rhythm in shared breath and racing heartbeats. The city lights filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting his skin in shifting patterns of shadow and illumination that made him appear almost otherworldly.
I watched his face as pleasure overtook him, his eyes locked on mine with a trust that humbled me. In that moment, I understood that what was happening between us had little to do with our hasty marriage or mutual protection and everything to do with a connection neither of us had anticipated.
My body responded to him with an intensity that still amazed me, nerve endings I'd thought permanently deadened coming alive under his touch. The scientific impossibility of it had become secondary to the emotional revelation—that Connor could reach parts of me I'd thought forever closed.
Afterward, we lay tangled in the expensive sheets, both of us breathing heavily, neither willing to break the fragile peace that had settled between us.
Connor's head rested on my chest, his fingers absently tracing patterns on my skin, moving from one scar to another without hesitation or revulsion.
When his touch drifted to my left shoulder, lingering on the tattoo partially obscured by a surgical scar, I felt him shift to get a better look.
"I didn't notice this before," he said softly, tracing the outline of the geometric design. "What does it mean?"
I glanced down at the tattoo I rarely thought about anymore. "It's a phoenix. I got it after graduating law school, before taking over at Montgomery Industries."
Connor's finger continued its gentle exploration. "Before the accident."
"Yes."
"Fitting though, isn't it? The symbol of rebirth, rising from destruction." His voice held no pity, only a quiet understanding that made it easier to bear.
We fell silent again, the distant sounds of the city providing a gentle backdrop to our breathing. Connor's hand moved from the tattoo to a particularly prominent scar that ran along my ribcage, his touch questioning.
"Tell me about your accident," he said softly, the request hanging between us in the dimly lit room.
I tensed involuntarily, the familiar walls beginning to rise. For three years, I'd offered only the barest details to anyone who asked—a drunk driver, a crash, permanent spinal damage. Clinical facts stripped of emotion, of the terror and rage and loss that had accompanied them.
Connor sensed my withdrawal. "You don't have to," he added quickly. "I just thought... after everything you've shared about my family, maybe it would help to talk about it."
Something in his voice—the genuine concern, the lack of agenda—made me reconsider. Perhaps it was time to speak the words I'd kept locked inside for too long.
"The car went over the guardrail," I began, the words feeling rusty, unpracticed. "It was late, raining. The other driver crossed the center line. I swerved to avoid him, but the road was wet." I paused, memories flooding back with unexpected vividness—the squeal of tires, the momentary weightlessness as the car left the road, the terrifying knowledge that what was coming would change everything.
"Jake pulled me out before the explosion, but not before the damage was done." My voice sounded distant even to my own ears. "He was driving behind me. Saw the whole thing. If he hadn't been there..."
Connor's hand found mine, fingers intertwining, anchoring me to the present as I drifted into the past.
"I woke up in the hospital three days later. The doctors told me the spinal damage was permanent. T10 complete spinal cord injury." The medical terminology felt safer, a buffer between me and the reality of what it had meant. "They said I would never walk again. Never feel anything below the injury site."
I laughed bitterly. "They also said sexual function was 'highly unlikely.' Seems they were wrong about that, at least."
Connor's lips curved slightly, but his eyes remained serious, focused on my face as if he could see past the practiced detachment to the pain beneath.
"The physical recovery was... difficult. But it wasn't the worst part." I hesitated, approaching the truth I rarely acknowledged even to myself. "The worst was watching people leave."
Connor raised himself onto one elbow, his expression questioning.
"Elizabeth—a woman I'd been seeing casually—visited twice, then disappeared. Business associates suddenly found reasons not to meet in person. Friends became increasingly 'busy.'" The words tasted bitter, the old hurt surprising me with its persistence. "People say they can handle disability, but when faced with the reality of it..."
"They couldn't see past the wheelchair," Connor finished for me, understanding immediately.
"Precisely. Except Jake and a few of my other frat brothers. And Michael, though he was an employee first."
