Chapter 25 Wes
TWENTY-FIVE
WES
She yelped on the other side of the door—a quick, startled sound—followed by the scuff of bare feet on hardwood.
The door opened halfway, and Clara stood there in nothing but a towel.
Her hair was wet and wavy, darker at the ends where it dripped onto the terry cloth.
Cheeks flushed, skin pink from hot water, collarbones gleaming in the soft light from her bedside lamp.
The towel was knotted between her breasts, barely hanging on, leaving her shoulders naked and a long, dangerous stretch of thigh visible where the edge wrapped and overlapped.
My brain short-circuited.
Every sensible thing I’d come up here to say scattered like sawdust in a fan. All that was left was the fact that Clara Darling was half naked in front of me and looking at me like she hadn’t expected me to actually be on the other side of that knock.
Her gaze flicked over my face and paused. The corner of her mouth tilted, small and surprised.
“Your reading glasses are still on,” she said softly.
My hand flew up on reflex, fingers bumping the frame. Of all the things I was suddenly aware of—the quick punch of my heartbeat, the stretch of towel over her chest, the drop of water sliding down the inside of her arm—that was what she went for.
“Right,” I muttered. “Forgot.”
I started to take them off, heat crawling up the back of my neck. She moved faster, lifting her hand and wrapping her fingers around my wrist.
“No,” she said, eyes on mine. “I like them.”
The words were simple. Nothing more than a preference, but they landed like a live wire.
For months I’d seen the glasses as one more reminder that my body wasn’t quite working like it used to. More proof that things were wearing out, falling apart, needing help. She was looking at them like they were . . . something else. Like they did something to her that she liked.
A flicker of confidence I hadn’t felt in too long kicked in my chest, small and stunned. Maybe she was into this version of me. Not the blueprint of the guy I’d been, but the one standing here with a metal leg, a scarred brain, and stupid reading glasses halfway down his nose.
I swallowed, pulse pounding where her fingers circled my wrist.
“Clara.” My voice scraped like gravel. “Can I . . . come in? We should talk.”
A shadow crossed her expression—caution, uncertainty, the echo of me saying no downstairs. Her grip loosened, but she didn’t move away.
I thought she was going to shut the door in my face. Then she exhaled, long and slow, and stepped back, giving me room.
“Yeah,” she murmured, tightening her hand on the knot of the towel. “Okay. Come in.”
I crossed the threshold into her room, my heart hammering, and shut the door behind me with a soft click. Suddenly the room felt a lot smaller.
Her lamp cast everything in warm gold—bed neatly made, pajamas tossed over the chair. She stood a few steps away, one hand clutching the knot of her towel, the other hovering uselessly at her side like it was looking for somewhere safe to land.
I stayed near the door at first. The wood was solid at my back, something to lean on while my brain tried to remember how to do this the right way.
“So,” she said quietly, gaze flicking up to mine, then away. “You decided to come yell at me about my life choices or . . . ?”
A humorless breath left my chest. “No,” I said. “I came to apologize.”
Her fingers tightened on the towel. “You already said good night.”
“Clara.” Her name came out rough and annoyed. I dragged a hand over my jaw, trying to scrape together words that didn’t sound like excuses. “What I said downstairs? That wasn’t because I didn’t want you.”
Her eyes snapped back to mine, wide and searching. The air between us tipped.
“Wanting you isn’t my problem,” I forced out. “It’s . . . everything after.”
Silence settled, heavy and waiting.
I pushed off the door and took a slow, uneven step toward her. Her throat worked on a swallow, but she didn’t move back.
“I was a dick,” I said. “Mostly because my brain was melting out my ears. Also because the list of things I am currently terrified of is long and pathetic.”
Her mouth curved at the edges. “You aren’t pathetic.”
“You’d be surprised.” My laugh came out low and frayed.
I shifted my weight, the prosthetic a familiar pressure.
“I have spent an impressive amount of time thinking about every way my body could fail me in bed. Leg gives out. Balance goes to shit. Phantom pain flares at the wrong second. I go numb or too sensitive or nowhere at all. You could see the not-fantasy version of sex with me and realize you signed up for a horror show instead of a highlight reel.”
Her expression softened in a way that made it hard to breathe. No flinching or pity. Just a steady, clear look.
“Wes,” she said quietly. “I am not afraid of the not-fantasy version of you.”
I looked away, toward the window where the night pressed close and the snow outside glowed faintly. “You should be,” I muttered. “I am.”
She took a breath, slow and measured. “Then that’s what this was about,” she said. “What I was trying to offer.”
I glanced at her. She stood a little straighter, shoulders rolling back despite the fact that she was wearing nothing but a towel.
“You keep framing this like a performance,” she said.
“Like you have to show up already knowing the choreography, already hitting every mark, or you’ll get booed offstage.
” Her brows drew together. “This isn’t an audition, Wes.
This is practice. For you. With someone who already knows you’re a stubborn ass and wants to be here anyway. ”
Heat flickered in my chest at the same time embarrassment crawled up the back of my neck.
She took a careful step closer. The towel shifted with her, exposing another inch of thigh before she hitched it up again.
“I meant it,” she went on, voice softer but steady. “I want to help you figure out what works now. What feels good. Where the limits are and where they aren’t. Not for some hypothetical future woman you’re going to date someday. For you. So you know your body isn’t the enemy.”
My jaw clenched. The quiet in her tone cut deeper than any lecture could have.
“We go at your pace,” she said. “We stop when you say stop. We laugh if something’s awkward. We try again or we don’t. You’re in control the whole time, okay? Not your fear. Not the accident. You.”
The accident landed between us like a ghost. I swallowed hard.
“You really think it’s that simple?” I asked.
“No.” Her mouth twitched. “I think it’s going to be messy and weird and probably a little hilarious. I also think it could be really, really good.” Her gaze held mine. “Think of it as . . . a series. Lessons. Only as far as you want to go.”
My body already knew exactly how far it wanted to go. Right up against the wall of this room, into that bed, down every road I hadn’t let myself consider for months.
“They say exposure therapy works,” I tried to joke. “Set me loose in the deep end, see if I drown.”
“This isn’t throwing you in the deep end,” she said. “This is stepping into the shallow end together and letting you decide if and when we go deeper.” Her throat bobbed. “It’s not charity, Wes.”
My head jerked up at that.
“It’s not pity. It’s not me doing a good deed.” She took a breath, eyes dropping briefly to my mouth before returning to my eyes. Her voice dropped. “I want this too.”
Her words hung there, vibrating.
Then she let go of the knot. The towel slid. It loosened around her chest and whispered down her body in one clean line, pooling at her feet in a small, defeated heap of white terry cloth.
My lungs stopped working.
Clara stood in front of me, bare and unashamed, skin still flushed from the shower. My gaze dragged over her in slow, helpless passes, as if my eyes had their own gravity and she was the only thing they recognized.
Water still clung to her collarbone, beading along the delicate notch before sliding down to the swell of her breasts.
Her nipples were tight and flushed, pretty and obscene at the same time, and all I could think about was how they would feel against my tongue.
She was all contrast—strong thighs and generous hips, soft skin over quiet muscle, the kind of body that looked made for being touched and held and ruined in the best possible way.
My gaze caught on the slick shine between her legs, and my lungs forgot how to work.
Every possessive, filthy thought I’d tried to choke down roared back all at once—on your knees, taste her, make her fall apart on your tongue until she forgets her own name.
Underneath it, threaded through the heat, was something that scared me more than the wanting did.
Reverence.
A bone-deep ache that had nothing to do with my cock and everything to do with the fact that she had given me this, had stood there naked and unashamed and offered herself like she trusted me not to break her.
Lust pushed at my ribs, hot and wild, begging me to close the distance. Tenderness pressed just as hard from the inside, slow and steady, whispering that if I touched her now, there would be no pretending this was just practice, no going back to clean lines and careful rules.
My cock throbbed so hard it bordered on painful. Every fear I had was still there, still hissing in the back of my mind, but it was drowned out by one loud, brutal truth: I wanted her so much it scared me.
She shifted her weight, bare toes curling briefly in the towel at her feet. Her chin lifted a fraction, like she was bracing for impact.
“This is not me just being kind,” she said quietly. “This is me wanting you. Like this. Now. Knowing exactly who you are and what you’ve been through and what might happen.” Her fingers flexed at her sides. “You can say no. I’ll survive the mortification. But don’t tell me I don’t want this.”
The reservoir in my chest cracked.