Текст книги "Revealed to Him"

Автор книги: Jen Frederick

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

JAKE

Her words are hardly more than a whisper, but as powerful as if she’d shouted them from the balcony.

Open the door. Open the door. Open the door is the mantra that runs through my mind. But I told her I wouldn’t ask. I told her we would wait. After hearing her, after listening to her sweet orgasm fill the night air, after feeling the gasp of frustration, I’m driven with the need to burst inside.

I lean my forehead against the cool glass and massage my aching erection. It was hard to stay in control when her sultry voice described her clothes, her lack of underwear, and how slick and wet she was. While I want nothing more than to open the door, pick her up, and cover her with my body before the door closes behind me, I pause to think. Is this too fast? Am I asking too much? I can provide distraction all night, but at some point, she’s going to come out of her sexual haze and realize that there’s a near stranger in her apartment. I’d rather wait—No, you fucking don’t want to wait, my dick screams at me—because it might mean a greater reward later.

Risk versus reward.

I have always been a risk taker.

The sound of the lock being disengaged pierces the night like a rifle shot. I stand and turn the knob slowly, giving her every opportunity to draw back. But it opens easily and I fill the doorframe, a big hulking shape against the dark night.

I take a step over the threshold but freeze when she gasps and covers her mouth in what looks like horror. Not since my early days have I felt this prickling of discomfort at my physical appearance. I straighten, ready to march out without another word, when she knocks me off center again.

“You don’t look anything like Seth Rogen.”

“I—I have no response to that.” I come all the way in, reach around to grab my duffel and then lock the door. Turning around, I face her, and this time I don’t see horror but hungry delight. Her eyes rove over me, not stopping at my left hand but taking me all in.

“Holy crap, you’re beautiful.” There’s a bit of dismay in her voice, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep me from smiling. “I had prepared myself mentally for someone else. You look more like—I don’t know—Mr. January from an NYFD calendar.”

I grin at her obvious agitation. “What station? I’m curious to see what my doppelganger looks like.”

She presses both hands against her reddening cheeks. She’s gorgeous. I much prefer looking at her when she’s upright and conscious. Her honeyed hair spills in loose curls around her oval face. Her delicate, unmarked skin is framed by the sofa throw she’s draped around herself. My body tightens at the knowledge that under that blanket there is nothing but acres of her precious skin. So this is it. I can feel my bachelorhood folding its tent and packing itself away, because one night won’t be enough with her.

“I wasn’t prepared for you,” she repeats in some frustration. “Tell me your flaws.”

“Apparently I don’t describe myself well. I told you how tall I was.”

“I don’t know what that means. I thought you were tall, but had a nice soft pooch in the middle.”

Deliberately I raise my shirt. I know I look good there. It’s why I eat chicken and broccoli. Her swift intake of breath at the sight of my ridged abdomen and defined obliques that form a V. “You can throw me some pillows and we can pretend, if that’s important to you.”

She sighs and slumps on the sofa. “You’re out of my league. I can’t have sex with you now. I know your type. You date the type of women Oliver dates.”

“I’d think that was an insult, but I know you love your cousin, so, thank you?” I drop the duffel bag and join her on the sofa. I gather her soft body in my arms and tuck her head into my neck so she can’t see my grin.

“I need you to go away and come back less perfect,” she mumbles against my skin.

I shouldn’t be surprised at how that almost innocent contact burns in the best possible way.

“You do remember my hand and leg, right?” I tap her with said hand.

“Are you bragging about your superhuman abilities right now? Because it’s not the time,” she says in an indignant huff.

I choke on my laughter. “I’m not the bionic man yet, but I bet I can make you feel better.”

“You know, as Mr. January, you have to have options, right?”

I can’t hold back any longer and I shake with laughter. Literally throw back my head and howl. Finally, I say, “Not as many as Mr. December. He has the whole year to collect numbers.”

She grumbles but doesn’t move away. She burrows into my embrace and wraps her arms around my waist. With a finger under her chin, I tip her face up. I want to kiss her, but more than that, I want to see her. Her hazel eyes, a golden brown, sparkle at me in rueful amusement, and behind that is banked heat ready to be stoked.

“You’re not broken. Adversity has bent you, but you aren’t broken. You left your apartment and went to the subway station. In another couple of months, you would have gotten on the train. You’re going to do that again.”

She sighs and I feel her slight body push against mine.

“Jake, I think I need you to be my therapist.”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

“Why?”

“It’s unethical to sleep with your patients.”

I’m done with talking. Swooping down, I take her mouth in mine. She is surprised, and then her lips fall open and she’s kissing me back, just as hard and just as hungry. She moans and the vibration echoes between my ears and thunders down my spinal cord. Her tongue isn’t tentative nor is her tight grip in my hair. She tastes me with the fervor and passion of a woman who hasn’t been kissed in more than three years. Maybe she’s never been kissed this well. Maybe she’s never been wanted this badly.

I hold her jaw between the fingers of my good hand and leave my left one at my side. But she surprises me, as she always has, and releases her death grip on my head. Her hand drops down and runs lightly over my left arm until she clutches the wrist. Not once does she lift her lips from mine. Not once does her fervor let up. Not even when she lifts my wrist to place my hand around her breast.

I don’t take time to examine the unfamiliar feeling in my chest. I pack it away and focus on the sensations I understand, like the ache in my cock and the desire to get inside her. I break away from her luscious mouth to run my lips along her chin and down the column of her neck. She tips her head up and to the side to give me better access.

“Oh, Jake.” Her hands move to my shoulders as I travel lower, tugging the blanket down with my teeth until her nipples are exposed. I bend my head and bite.

She nearly comes off the sofa. Her hips thrust upward, seeking relief. I rip the blanket aside to expose her pale body flushed with arousal.

“Perfect. You’re perfect.”

Her legs fall open in clear invitation and I don’t hesitate to thrust one finger inside her. I’m clutched tight and hot. My eyes roll into the back of my head at the pleasure of it.

“More,” she pants. Her nails dig into my shoulders, punctuating her demands.

In answer, I thrust another finger inside her. “Is this enough or do you want more?”

“More.”

Her back arches and her hips rise to meet my hand. Her tongue runs along the cords of my neck. It’s my turn to gasp and writhe. Christ, I want inside her body, but I’m determined to make her come first. I want to feel what it’s like as her body shudders its release.

The bright lights expose her every vein and highlight every curve. Her porcelain skin looks too delicate to be exposed to the sun or rain. The glow off the tops of her breasts beckons my mouth, and I tongue each hard peak as she grinds against me. I press the hard base of my hand against her pelvis.

“Shit, you’re tight,” I say before taking another rigid nipple into my mouth for a hard suck. I’m not gentle with her because she doesn’t want that. She’s used to her own soft hand, her own gentle touch, and now she wants a man’s hand, with a man’s calluses, and a man’s firm pressure. I touch places inside her she can’t reach, curling my fingers and dragging them along the front wall of her cunt.

She keens a low sobbing noise. “Close, so close, Jake. Please.”

In the next thrust of my hand, I work in a third finger, stretching her, and it only takes two more pumps of my hand. As the orgasm overtakes her and her nerves become oversensitive, she tries to draw away.

“Too much!” she cries.

But I follow her down, rubbing relentlessly all the while whispering encouragement. “You can take more. I know you can.” I bite her neck, her ear, and then capture her lips again, plunging my tongue inside her mouth in a graphic preview of how my cock will feel.

She squirms and writhes and as the sensations build again, her body tightens like a bowstring and she shrieks into my mouth. For the sake of her neighbors, I swallow it. I drink in her cries. Then I stop thrusting and slowly withdraw from her body as her tremors slow and soften.

Her clawed fingers loosen and she clasps me against her chest.

“Oh Jake, oh God, oh Jake,” she repeats in some kind of prayerful litany. Her hands beat against me in jerky, random movements as if she wants to touch everything at once and doesn’t know where to start.

I’m hard, harder than I have ever been, but I lie as quietly as possible under her touch, waiting for her signal for more.

“Is this all you got, soldier boy?”

The words cause me to spring into action. I leap off the couch and pick her up. I fling her over my shoulder, and she squeals in fake dismay as I stride into her bedroom.

“Let’s see what kind of performance problems I have in here.”

I toss her on the bed, thoroughly enjoying the way her breasts bounce when she lands. Her waist nips in and then flares out to nice round hips ending in long legs. This is not a girl’s body, but a womanly one with abundant curves and serious dips.

She looks like a seductress, one arm braced on the bed and the other gesturing for me to come near. I unbuckle my pants and shove them down to the tops of my thighs and pull my cock out of my underwear. It will take too long to remove my pants, so I leave them there and tear at my shirt, reaching behind my back to pull it over my head.

Her eyes widen in gratifying appreciation as she takes in my broad chest and defined upper body, and I’ve never felt so glad I spend all that time in the gym.

“I want all of that.” She makes a zigzag sign in the air as she points to me, ending with a fingertip directed toward my cock. It bobs and flexes in response.

“He wants you.”

I grab her leg and pull her to the edge of the bed. From my back pocket, I pull out a small packet. I sheathe myself with one hand and with the other spread her wide. Her lower lips glisten in the low light spilling in from the living room. I’m going to need to taste her later, but the urge to get inside her before I spill in my hand like a teenager is too powerful to resist.

I take my cock and rub it along her lips, over and over until she’s thrashing on the bed. Her fingers claw at the bedcovers. I resent the condom, a layer I’ve always used since my first time.

I clamp down on the base of my cock hard—to the point of pain—until I regain some control. Only to almost lose it again when I ease inside her. “Oh fuck,” I hiss.

Despite working her earlier with my three fingers, she’s still incredibly tight.

“Relax, sweetheart,” I croon. I brace my left hand on the bed and use my right to soothe her in long sweeping strokes from her sternum to her navel. We share a moan as her wriggling slides me deeper inside. Fuck. When has it ever felt this good?

Never.

“I’m ready, really,” she pants.

“Not yet you’re not.” I pull out and she cries out her disapproval.

“No. Don’t stop!”

Ignoring her, I gesture toward the mountain of pillows at the top of the bed. “Throw me one of those.”

She does and I catch it with one hand. I push her up against the headboard and shove a pillow under her ass. Crawling between her legs, I give her a wicked wink. “Now let’s get you good and ready.”

I dive in. I lash her clit with my tongue and rasp her inner thighs with my scruff. Her knees fall open to provide me even better access. I suck her lips between my teeth, biting down until I hear her cry above me.

Her hands dig into my head again, pressing me closer. I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.

“Don’t stop. Don’t stop,” she begs. Or maybe it’s an order.

Doesn’t matter, because I won’t. Not until she comes all over my face.

She turns into a wild, squirming, loud being. Her words become a jumble of pleas and orders. Something about can’t, don’t, please, and then, “I’m coming. Jake, I’m coming.”

And I feel it everywhere. Her thighs shake, her stomach grows taut, and against my tongue the vibrations of her orgasm barrel down from her head straight into my mouth. My toes and fingers are electrified. Rearing up, I drag her still trembling body to the very edge of the bed. In one quick motion, I sheathe myself in her.

The sounds of hard fucking—the slap of our skin, the draw of her sex, the sound of our breath—ratchet up my arousal.

She is so tight, her grip so hard that I almost have to fight my way out. Her hands dig into the bed covering and I use my left hand to brace myself while my right is dug into her hip, holding her body for my invasion.

“Touch yourself. Show me what you like,” I say.

She obeys immediately. Her fingers start rubbing, hard—harder than I would have imagined she liked. I want to thrust forever, but I can’t.

She’s just too fucking hot, too fucking tight, too fucking lush, and I can’t hold on for one minute longer.

“Coming, sweet,” I order, my jaw clenched tight. “Come with me.”

“Yes. Yessss.”

At those words, I feel her clamp around me as I, hard and needy, shoot inside her in long, relentless streams of come. Her hips grip mine and I pump inside her for what seems like an endless amount of time. Until my vision blurs. Until my mind is completely blank. Until I’m a shuddering, wracked, empty shell. She has all of me. Everything.

I collapse on the bed, barely able to roll to the side to avoid crushing her. My heart is pounding so hard I swear it is outside of my body.

“Shit” is the only word I can manage.

She laughs weakly and a small soft hand flops onto my chest, followed by her head as she snuggles into my side. “I think you wrecked me.”

“No, I’m the one who’s destroyed. You’re able to move.”

I wrap my arm around her, the one made of metal and plastic. She doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. She just snuggles in closer.

In the aftermath, the night air sends goose bumps over her skin. I reach across her and wrap the edge of the comforter around her. I’m too hot for blankets, plus her body provides me plenty of heat. Exhausted and sated, I hold her until her breath evens out.

After the haze of the orgasm wears off, the ache in my left arm and left leg intensifies. I need to get home and take these prosthetics off. I’ve worn them way too long. As quietly as possible, I ease out from underneath her. I press a kiss against her temple and wrap the comforter around her like a cocoon.

It takes me a minute to find my clothes; I locate my shirt under a dresser. Shrugging it on, I zip my pants up, but decide not to deal with the belt. I cup the end in my hand so the metal doesn’t clink and wake her. Out in the living room, I gather up my duffel.

I begin to limp, slightly.

In the six years since my medical discharge and the five since I’ve had my prosthetics, I’ve never slept overnight with a woman and I have never taken a prosthetic off in her presence. It’s one thing for a woman to fuck a guy standing on two legs even if one of those legs is fake. It’s one thing to be held by a man with two arms, even if one of those arms is made of metal and plastic, but it’s a whole different game to be touched by a stump.

I’ve mostly been at peace with myself over the loss of my leg and arm. I’m in better physical shape than I’ve ever been—even when I was deployed. I’m careful with what I eat; I run and lift assiduously. With the advancements companies have made with artificial limbs, I can even operate my prosthetics with my brain.

DARPA and others are working on making those difficult fine motor skills a reality. Already the lower-limb prosthetics are making life virtually indistinguishable from those who still have the limbs they were born with. Amy Purdy competed in a dance competition, blowing everyone’s socks off. The astonishing gains we’ve made in science and technology are eradicating the lines between abled and disabled.

Still, for all of that, I’m reluctant, but if I want more than sex with Natalie, I’m going to have to learn to be comfortable taking my prosthesis off in front of her.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

JAKE

“So you’re fucking my cousin?” drawls Oliver Graham as I close Natalie’s door behind me.

Fatigue and a little pain makes me irritable. “You spend a lot of time lurking outside your cousin’s door?”

He advances in a way I’m sure is supposed to be menacing. No doubt he’s used to intimidating people, but I served in the army for eight years, four of them as a Ranger. I’ve seen shit and done shit that’d give him nightmares.

“How’s the investigation going? You find out who sent that note yet?”

His words taunt—he knows I don’t have anything to report, because if I did, he’d have already had the information. I take a moment so I don’t say something I regret. This is Natalie’s beloved cousin.

“We’re working on it,” I reply with studious calm.

He stops a foot away. “You’ve found time to seduce my cousin but haven’t made any progress on finding the shitstain who is tormenting her.”

His accusations sting, in part because they’re true. We haven’t made much progress on finding the guy behind the note or the clown. Neither the ex nor Dr. Terrance appear to be behind the threats either, although we keep watching both.

“We’re working on it,” I repeat. “I’m tired and I’m going home. I’ll call you when we find out something worth reporting.”

I attempt to move around him, but he’s having none of it. I eye his well over six-feet-five-inch frame. He’s got a couple inches on me but not much more than that. I’m confident that I’d take him in a fight, not because I’m stronger than him but because I’ve been trained to fight to kill. But it’d be close, real close.

“You don’t want to do this,” I say softly. The last thing I want to do is get in a brawl with Natalie’s cousin outside her apartment at two in the fucking morning.

“Do what? Wipe the floor with your weak ass?”

I try to gather my calm. I have been accused, frequently, of being overprotective of my two sisters. Graham has every reason to be on edge given what’s going on in Natalie’s life.

“Fight out here and we’ll wake Natalie up,” I caution.

“Don’t fuck with her,” he says fiercely, but his voice is lowered. He doesn’t want to disturb her any more than I do. “She’s delicate. She doesn’t need someone to sweet-talk his way into her panties and then waltz away. I don’t even know how you got her to open the fucking door for you, but I’m telling you now to stay away.”

“You’re right and you’re wrong.” I gesture toward her door. “Yes, she’s got some issues, but she’s not all that delicate.” The sting of her nails in my back is evidence of that, I think. “As for how I got her to open the door, she asked me to come in.”

“To fuck?” he sneers in disbelief. I can see by the veins in his neck and the set of his jaw that he’d like to haul off and hit me.

I run a hand through my hair. “This is getting nowhere. Natalie’s an adult. She gets to make her own decisions. She gets to decide when to call her doctor and who to have sex with. Not you. And I have no intention of fucking and running. That’s not my style, unlike some people.”

The snide remark hits home. Graham has a reputation for playing the field outside the stadium as well. He flinches but then rallies.

“If you aren’t planning on ditching her after you’ve gotten your snake wet, then why the hell are you leaving in the dead of night? You know women don’t like that.” He throws his hand out toward the door.

“Because my leg fucking aches and I don’t want to pull it off the first night I spend with her,” I bite out in frustration and knock his arm down. Leaving her isn’t my first choice.

He opens his mouth and then closes it. When pity leaks into his eyes, I’m done. Just done.

“Sorry, man,” he says and steps back.

I fight the urge to punch him in the face. “Backing down because I’m a gimp? Thought you were better than that.”

I brush by him and he offers no resistance, making me even angrier. At the elevator, I jab the DOWN button with my left hand. See. I work my body just as well as you do.

When he comes to stand beside me, I don’t look at him. In part because I’m embarrassed by my outburst and in part because I’m angry I’m not in bed with Natalie. I should’ve just removed the prosthesis and climbed in bed with her. If she lay at my right side, she wouldn’t even have noticed.

Now I have to explain to her why I left, and deal with her hurt feelings. I may have even damaged her trust. All because I was vain and thinking of myself instead of her. I scrub my hand over my face. With a sigh, I turn to Oliver.

“Truce?” I hold out my right hand.

“Truce.” He takes it and gives it a manly squeeze.

The elevator doors open and I step on and Graham follows. I direct a raised eyebrow toward him, but he merely shrugs. We are both silent until the elevator stops on the lobby floor.

When I step onto the marble tiles, Graham’s right there with me. He nods to the night doorman and exits to the street.

“I sometimes forget you even have a prosthetic,” Graham says. “You manhandled the clown like a pro. I mean, it was pretty awesome seeing you zip-tie his wrists with one hand. That’s a good move.”

“Thanks.” I accept his unstated apology and offer the explanation I wouldn’t give before because I didn’t like my integrity questioned. “I like your cousin a lot and I should’ve stayed, but the situation got the best of me and I felt like it made more sense to go home and come back in the morning.”

“Which one’s yours?” he asks, nodding toward the row of cars on the street.

I point to the black machine down the street.

“Nice.” He whistles. “I’ll walk you to it.”

Because I’m too tired to argue, I allow him to follow me to my car. The lights turn on as I near, the internal sensors reading the signal the key in my pocket is emitting.

“Audi A8. Is this the five-hundred-horsepower version?”

He skims a hand over the top of the hood, respectfully not touching the actual metal but following the slope with his hand.

“Twelve cylinders, five hundred horsepower, all-wheel drive,” I confirm.

“Upgraded wheels,” he says, with approval. “I like the open spokes. I’ve been thinking about buying a car. I’ve never had one in the city. Parking’s a beast. You have problems with that?”

“Part of the deal,” I answer. “You take the good and bad, but what the hell, so you have to walk an extra block or two. Worth it.” I knock my hand against the matte-black steel.

“Custom painted? I didn’t see the matte black as a version on the website.”

I give him a rueful grin. “A friend of mine has a matte-black Ferrari F430. It was smoking hot. Had to copy it.”

“No shit.” His eyes light up. “You drive it?”

“Yeah, it’s a tight ride.”

“Have you seen the 2010 Lotus Exige Stealth? It’s matte black with a high-gloss stripe down the middle. Only thirty-five units made and none in the US.”

“Haven’t seen it,” I admit. “But that friend I mentioned is a big car buff. He might have. Hell, he might own one.”

He gives me a speculative look. “You’re not just a security guy, are you?”

Graham is looking for assurance that I’m good for his cousin, and so I share a few details to make him feel better. “I’m not. I’ve got money in the bank. I own that townhouse where my office is located, free and clear. Bought it with the inheritance I gained control of when I was twenty-one, and I only drained a portion of it. I’m not part of the super-rich here in the city but I’m not ever going to have a problem making rent or putting food on the table.”

He nods. “I know it’s rude, but Natalie’s got some money now—from her books and given her circumstances—” He spreads his hands out.

“You want to make sure she’s not being taken advantage of,” I finish.

“Right. She’s gone through a lot.” We both look up at her apartment. “She deserves to be happy. Anyway, I’ll let you go so you can take care of business.” He nods toward my leg and then turns to leave.

“Before you go, Graham, you should know that the security in your building is for shit. I wouldn’t let either of my sisters live here.”

He spins back. “What do you mean? It’s got cameras in the lobby and a twenty-four-hour doorman. No one gets upstairs without signing in or being okayed by a resident.

“Trust me. This is my business and I do it well, which you know or you never would have hired me. There are only two sets of cameras. One in the lobby and one set in the elevators. There are none on the individual floors and none in the stairwells. The day doorman is more interested in how his hair looks than who comes and goes. The locks are so flimsy that I was able to use a bump key to get into her neighbor’s apartment.”

His jaw hardens and juts out in a familiar pose that I’ve seen on my television screen on Sundays. Narrow-eyed and determined, his look means someone’s going to get an ass kicking. “I can see I’m going to have a long talk with the property management company.”

“You do that, but unless they okay additional security measures, my recommendation is to sell your pricey penthouse for a profit and move into some place that has better protection. You’ll need it too. If you don’t have women already sneaking in at all hours trying to get a piece of Oliver Graham, most eligible bachelor, you will, and this place will make it easier for them to get you in a compromising position. It’d sell more than a few tabloids. Good luck if you’re trying to have a serious relationship. Is a new girlfriend going to believe that a random woman broke into your apartment?”

He’s still scowling when I drive away.

At home I send a text to Natalie, hoping she’s not too pissed off when she wakes up. It’s a toss-up which part of my body hurts more. Reluctantly I climb into the elevator, which I rarely use but was the primary reason I bought this particular townhouse. At the top floor, I stagger out. I drop my pants and ease down on the edge of the bed.

My left thigh looks swollen. I could use a good rubdown, but it’s three in the morning and the only people I could call to give me a massage at this hour would be delivering the standard happy ending. And my dick only wants one woman right now.

As I ease the rubber sleeve down and the sock, doing the same to my arm, the relief of having the artificial limbs off is tremendous. I flop back onto the bed to enjoy the air circulating around my body. I miss her already and I feel stupid for leaving. Of all people, Natalie’s the last person who would judge my appearance. She seemed disappointed I was fit and attractive, I remind myself. Fatigue sets in. I should shower tonight to avoid too much swelling from the heated water in the morning. It makes it hard to get the prosthetics on. But my body has turned leaden and my eyelids drop down and then I’m out.

The sun streams through the unblocked windows a few hours later, jolting me awake. I slept poorly. My skin is itchy from not showering and my bed feels curiously empty. I remember waking up after surgery. The pain was intense everywhere—not just around the surgical sites. The phantom pain everyone warned me about took me off guard. As time went on, that pain eased to a dull ache, until it just felt like I was missing something. Wearing my artificial limbs helped, and like Natalie, if I was distracted, it was easier to shove the pain aside.

I’m feeling that curious dull ache again. Like I’m missing something vital.

I hop into the shower and clean up. Drying off, I view the wreckage of the night before. The prosthetic is still in the jeans with the boot around it. I don’t want to hassle with it, so I scoop up the mess and toss it in the corner. There are advantages to having a thick wallet and one of those is having more than one prosthetic. I pull the other carbon fiber foot and socket out of the closet and throw it onto the bed next to the arm I discarded last night.

I cover the arm with the sock and the liner and affix the stump into the arm socket. From the dresser I pull out another pair of jeans and a plain gray T-shirt. The shirt slides easily over my head. The jeans are another story. I stick the prosthetic into the jeans leg and then repeat the process I conducted for my arm. Sliding the other leg in, I’m dressed.

After four years of this, it’s as habitual as brushing my teeth and just as routine, but it’s a chore. One of the biggest changes post-injury was how long it took me to do even the most ordinary of tasks. The hand and arm prosthetic, no matter how great the advancements, are still tools and not real limbs. Ironically it was my injury that made me realize I have opinions about how my home is set up and what kinds of clothes I like. I prefer big furniture with plenty of places to put my feet up, and soft clothes without many fastenings. I also know who I want in my home. I want Natalie and not because I need help putting on my clothes.

The only reason I want Natalie here is because I want her with me. Not to help me dress or pick out my clothes, but because I want to watch her sleep, watch her wake up, watch her writhe on my sheets. I want to take her in the shower and put her ass up on the highboy dresser at the perfect height for my mouth.

And yes, it’s a strange yearning I’m experiencing. It took me a couple of years after surgery, after wearing the artificial limbs, to truly feel comfortable in my own skin again.

I’d met my share of women who had a fetish for amputees and then a few who wanted to smother me with well-intentioned care, but I wasn’t interested in playing someone’s charge. I wanted a partner and preferably one who didn’t try to ride my stump. I shudder at the memory of that night gone wrong.