Chapter 26 Clara #2
My hips started to move on their own, tiny helpless rolls that chased whatever he was giving me. He tightened his grip, guiding me, and the combination of him holding me there and letting me move wrecked whatever was left of my composure.
“Wes,” I choked out, every muscle going tight as a wire. “I—I can’t—”
Everything inside me cinched tight at once. My thighs shook, my spine bowing as heat coiled sharp and bright, then snapped. A broken sound tore out of me—half sob, half his name—as the world narrowed to the rush of release rolling through me in helpless waves.
I pitched forward, catching myself with one hand on the wall above the headboard, the other still buried in his hair. My thighs quivered around his head, breath sawing in and out like I’d just sprinted the length of the beach.
He eased up slowly, one last maddeningly gentle pass of his tongue that sent aftershocks skittering through me. His hands loosened on my hips, sliding up to steady my waist instead, holding me there while I remembered how to exist in my own body again.
Holy. Shit.
Every man before him felt like an echo—all suggestion and no resonance. Wes Vaughn had just taken my carefully constructed ideas about sex and blown them straight to hell, all without moving from one spot on the bed. That man didn’t just put up with eating pussy, he reveled in it.
I’d made my offer thinking I was going to help him get his mojo back.
Right now, shaking and half draped over the headboard, I was pretty sure he’d just erased everyone who’d come before him like they’d never existed at all.
Carefully, I forced my knees to unlock.
Every muscle in my body felt like it had been unplugged and plugged back in sideways. I eased my weight off him an inch at a time, my shaky thighs protesting as I shifted. The last thing I wanted was to slide wrong and grind down on his leg.
“I’ve got you,” Wes murmured, voice rough.
His hands slid from my hips to my waist, steadying, guiding.
He helped me turn, helped me find the mattress, helped me settle beside him instead of collapsing like a stunned rag doll.
My back hit the sheets, and I stared up at the ceiling, chest rising too fast, lungs doing a terrible job pretending they remembered how to work.
“You okay?” he asked.
A shaky laugh hiccuped out of me. “I’m not entirely sure I remember my own name.”
One corner of his mouth kicked up. There was still moisture glinting at his jaw, his hair a little mussed from my fingers. The sight sent a fresh, traitorous flush sweeping over my skin.
“Clara,” he said, like it was an answer, not a question. “There. Now you remember.”
I let out a wobbly breath. “Show-off.”
We just looked at each other, the air between us thick and quiet. Then he shifted, reaching blindly until his fingers found the fallen towel on the floor.
“C’mere,” he said softly.
He sat up, bracing one hand behind him, and pulled me gently toward his lap.
The bravado from a few minutes ago was gone; what was left was careful and almost shy.
He used the towel to wipe between my thighs with a tenderness that made my throat go tight, his touch slow and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.
“Sorry,” he muttered, gaze flicking up once to meet mine. “I just . . . want you comfortable.”
“You just melted my spine,” I said, dazed. “Comfortable is relative at this point.”
He huffed out a laugh, the sound low and pleased.
When he was satisfied, he tossed the towel back onto the floor and pushed off the bed, moving with that familiar care he kept pretending I didn’t notice.
He crossed to the dresser like he’d done it a hundred times, opened the top drawer, and rummaged until he found an old T-shirt.
“Arms,” he said.
He slipped the shirt over my head, careful not to tangle it with my hair, then tugged it down over my hips with a little pat.
“Very glam,” I said. “Real seduction wear.”
His eyes warmed. “Trust me,” he said. “I’ll be remembering the way you look in my T-shirt for a very long time.”
My heart did a slow, dangerous roll.
He sat at the edge of the bed, close enough that our knees brushed, and dragged a hand over his face. For the first time since this started, he looked a little shell-shocked too.
“You okay?” I asked, because it felt like the only question that mattered.
He let his hand fall, fingers drumming once against his thigh. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I . . . yes.”
A beat passed. Then he slanted me a look that was almost disbelieving.
“I didn’t think about it,” he said.
“Think about what?” I asked.
“My leg.” His gaze dropped briefly to where the prosthetic stretched under his sweats, then came back to my face. “I didn’t think about my balance. Or pain. Or what could go wrong. Not once. The whole time, the only thing in my head was you.”
Something hot pricked behind my eyes.
“Well,” I said, trying for light and missing, “you seemed pretty dialed in on the task at hand.”
His mouth twitched. “Lesson two seemed to require focus.”
I snorted. “Overachieving is what it was.”
“Guess I had a good teacher,” he murmured.
The compliment slid under my ribs and settled there, warm and heavy. We’d called this practice, framed it as work, but there was nothing clinical about the way he’d just taken my body apart like it was the only test that had ever mattered.
Pride swelled in my chest, sharp enough to hurt.
Not pride in myself—though my ego was not exactly suffering—but in him.
In the way he’d moved without second-guessing.
In the way his hands had gripped my thighs like he trusted his own strength again.
In the way he’d dragged a groan out of me and looked up like he’d just remembered his favorite language.
He hadn’t been a broken man with a compromised body. He’d been a man who knew exactly how to worship a woman and had been starving for the chance.
It was dangerous how much that made me love him.
I flinched internally as soon as the word surfaced, shoving it back down so fast my brain rattled. Not love. Not that. We had rules. It was literally the first one.
He sobered, eyes searching my face. “We should call it for tonight.”
A flicker of panic went through me before he added, quickly, “We should both probably get some rest.”
Relief and disappointment collided in my chest.
“Yeah,” I said. “Sounds good.”
His fingers brushed my hand, slow and hesitant, as if asking permission.
I turned mine over and let our palms press together.
Somehow the simple contact felt more intimate than his mouth between my legs had.
There was nothing to hide behind here. No shock, no urgency.
Just two people on a bed, holding hands like teenagers.
“I’ll . . . let you get cleaned up,” I said, swallowing. “Or, you know, changed.”
A flush crept up his neck, faint but there. “Probably a good idea,” he muttered.
We just sat there for another long, quiet moment, our hands linked, breaths gradually settling in sync. The heater kicked on again down the hall. Snow tapped lightly at the window. Inside, everything felt unnaturally still.
“Thank you,” he said finally.
I blinked. “For what? Hovering while you demonstrated your many talents?”
“For . . .” He shook his head, searching for words. “For letting me feel like myself again. For a few minutes.”
The ache in my chest expanded, big and bright and terrifying.
“You are yourself,” I said quietly. “Even when you forget.”
His thumb stroked once across the back of my hand, almost absently. Then he let go, fingers slipping away with a reluctance I felt all the way down my spine.
“I’ll, uh . . .” He cleared his throat and rose carefully from the bed. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
He took a few steps backward, toward the door, as if turning his back on me might break whatever spell we’d woven. At the threshold he paused and looked back, expression unreadable in the half-light.
“Sweet dreams, Clara,” he said softly.
The door clicked shut behind him.
For a long time, I didn’t move.
The room was dark except for the little pool of light from my lamp. My body still hummed, a slow, deep thrum under my skin, every nerve aware of what had just happened and who had done it to me. The sheets smelled faintly like my shampoo and his soap and something new we’d made between them.
I flopped back, staring at the ceiling, a dazed smile tugging at my mouth.
Then, beneath the floaty, postorgasmic haze, the stone of fear made itself known—a small, dense weight settling low in my ribs. This started as a way to build Wes’s confidence. Confidence to be the man he used to be . . . with other women. A tiny pang of nausea rolled through me.
Now I couldn’t stand the idea.
If this was just the beginning, I was in so much more trouble than I’d thought.