Wes pushed himself higher, his shoulders sinking into my pillows like he’d been there a hundred times instead of never. He shifted his leg, testing the angle, adjusting the prosthetic with small, efficient movements until his face didn’t tighten. He could have taken it off. We both knew that. The fact that he chose not to told me exactly how much he trusted it right now—and how not-ready he was to be that bare with me yet.
That was fine. One thing at a time.
I moved beside him, the mattress dipping under my weight. My hand found his chest on instinct, palm flattening over the warm spread of muscle there. His T-shirt was soft under my fingers, the hard, steady thud of his heartbeat against my palm making my own heartbeat race faster.
“You good?” I asked quietly.
His mouth kicked up, the tension in his jaw easing just enough to let something wicked through. “Definitely more than good,” he said, voice low and strained. “Get over here.”
Heat pooled low in my belly as my pussy clenched in anticipation.
I shifted, aware of every inch of my own skin, of how completely bare I was while he watched me. It felt like undressing all over again, except this time there was no towel to drop. Just me, flushed and open and fully visible to the one man in this town I absolutely shouldn’t want.
My fingers slid from his chest to his shoulder as I swung one leg over him, careful not to knee him in the ribs. First my knee landed by his side, then the other, bracketing his shoulders. The position was clumsy and intimate all at once, my thighs hovering over his chest, his heat rising up to meet the cool air on my skin.
My pulse roared in my ears. This was somehow more vulnerable than standing naked by the bed. There was nowhere to hide from his gaze, nothing between us but trust and a whole lot of bad decisions.
I hovered, muscles trembling, hands on the headboard to steady myself. I removed his glasses and set them on the bed beside us. “Tell me if this is too much,” I said, breathless. “If I’m too heavy or?—”
“Clara.” His voice cut through my spiral, rough and utterly sure. His hands slid up to my hips, fingers curling in like he’d been waiting his whole life for this grip. He looked up at me from beneath his lashes, pupils blown wide, reverent and filthy all at once. “You’re perfect,” he said. “Now sit on my fucking face.”
Something in my spine melted.
Trust won out over fear. I exhaled, slow and shaking, and let my weight settle back, his hands tightening on my hips to guide me exactly where he wanted me.
The first brush of his mouth on me shorted out my whole nervous system.
Heat, pressure, a devastating kind of focus—like he’d zeroed in on the exact center of me and decided that was the only thing in the world worth paying attention to. Everything went white noise. My hearing narrowed to the thud of my own heartbeat in my ears, the rasp of my breath, the low moan he made against me like he was the one being relieved of something.
My fingers clamped around the headboard, knuckles aching. My thighs wanted to snap shut on instinct, every muscle going tight and boneless at the same time.
Oh.
This was not tentative. There was no careful testing of the water, no awkward fumbling like he was trying to remember how anything worked. Whatever Wes doubted about his body, his instincts about me were sharp as a knife.
He moved like a man who had done this before and done it well—and like it mattered to him that I would remember this for the rest of my life.
I tried to tell myself this was good. This was what I wanted for him. A win. Proof to shove in the face of that ugly voice in his head that whispered every time he looked at his leg. He got to be steady here, strong, absolutely in control of what I was feeling.
Helping him,I reminded myself as another shock rolled through me.I’m helping him.
That fiction lasted about three seconds.
“Wes,” I gasped, his name catching on a breath that wasn’t fully formed. The noise that came out of me didn’t sound like mine. It was too raw, too high. I groped for words, for direction, for anything that sounded like I was the one steering this. “That ... oh my god, yes. Right there, don’t?—”
He made a low, satisfied noise, the vibration of it shooting straight through me.
Stubble rasped against tender skin, a rough counterpoint to the heat of his mouth. His fingers tightened on my hips every time I moaned, holding me in place when my body wanted to bolt and chase the feeling at the same time. There was something devastating in the way he held me—firm and grounding, like no matter how hard I shook, he wasn’t going anywhere, and at the same time like he was devouring me, like he’d been starving and I was the first real meal in months.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he managed against my skin, voice rough and muffled.
“More,” I heard myself say, the word torn out of me on a broken little sob. “Please.”
The desperation in my own voice shocked me almost as much as how fast he answered it, adjusting in ways that made everything worse and better all at once.
His hold on my thighs tightened, dragging me closer. “There you go,” he murmured against me. “Ride my face. Use me. Let me feel you come on my mouth.”
Coherent thought started to fray.
