“Strong opening,” I muttered.
She ignored me, which I realized was becoming a theme. “Rule one,” she said, lifting a finger. “We do not talk about this to anyone. Not my sisters, not the bros at Nerd Night, definitely not Hayes. This stays between us.”
My stomach clenched at my best friend’s name. “Yeah,” I said roughly. “That one I can get behind.”
“Rule two,” she went on. “Either one of us can call a halt. For any reason. Or no reason. No guilt. No ‘sorry I ruined the mood.’ We just ... stop.”
The tightness in my chest loosened a notch. “Deal.”
Her eyes flicked over my face, like she was checking for signs I’d spook if she pushed any further. “Rule three is more like ... a suggestion,” she said. “For tonight, I think we should start with you not touching me.”
Every muscle in my body went to high alert. “That’s a fucked-up suggestion,” I said hoarsely.
Her lips twitched. “You said you were worried about going too fast, about your body freaking out or your brain short-circuiting.” She lifted a shoulder. “So maybe tonight is about your voice. You stay where you are. I listen. You tell me what to do. What you want to see. What you want me to feel.”
Heat punched low and brutal.
“You want me to just stand here and watch you?” My voice sounded like it had been dragged over gravel.
Color rose in her cheeks. “I want you to have control without worrying about balance or phantom pain or whether your leg’s going to behave. You get to stay put. You get to call the shots. You get to actually see what looking at me does to you.” Her throat bobbed. “If you hate it, we stop. If it works, then we decide where to go next.”
Control without physical risk. The hottest thing I could imagine and the most terrifying.
My jaw clenched so hard it ached. I could almost feel the line we were standing on—safe on one side, everything else on the other. My hands itched to touch her, to drag her in, to find out every way this new version of my body could still make her fallapart. The same hands were already curling into fists at the idea of reaching and somehow failing.
Her eyes softened like she could see the war playing out in real time. “Lesson one,” she said, a faint, crooked smile tugging at her mouth as she planted her hands on her hips. “Just your voice. No touching. No promises beyond that.”
It should not have made me harder. Somehow it did.
I swallowed. “You’re really okay with that?”
“Wes.” She stepped back toward the space by the bed, the lamp glow gilding every line of her bare body. “You have no idea how okay I am with that.”
My control slipped.
“Lesson one,” I repeated, more to myself than her. “You do what I say. I stay over here.”
Her gaze dipped briefly to the obvious problem pressing against my sweats, then back up again, eyes darker now. “Tell me where you want me,” she murmured. “You’re in charge.”
Those were words I hadn’t trusted myself with in months.
I dragged in a breath, forcing my shoulders down, hands loose at my sides. “Stay by the bed,” I said, voice low. “Right where you are.”
She nodded once and planted her feet, chin tipped up, eyes never leaving mine. “Now what?” she asked.
I let my gaze drop, slow and deliberate, to the curve of her breasts, the line of her ribs, the soft slope of her stomach.
“Start at your throat,” I said, the words feeling strange and right in my mouth. “Use your hand. Slow.”
Her fingers flexed against her thigh, then lifted.
She started at the hollow of her throat, a slow drag that made the tendons in her neck flex. She skimmed over her collarbone, tracing its edge like she was learning herself in a new language, then slid lower to the swell of her breasts. The touch was barelythere, more suggestion than pressure, but her breath hitched like she’d yanked a plug out of a socket.
Goose bumps followed in the wake of her hand. Her nipples tightened, pebbling under her own palm, and the smallest sound caught in her throat. I felt every micro-reaction like it was wired into me—the flutter of her stomach, the way her shoulders eased back a fraction, the way her lips parted on a shaky exhale as if she’d surprised herself with how good her own touch could be.
“Do you remember the feel of a woman’s body?” she asked, voice breathy and teasing as her palm slid lower.
My laugh came out wrecked. “I’m having a hard time thinking about anything except you lately,” I admitted. “It’s a real problem.”
