Chapter 16
Zosia
I n the brief time that passes while I say goodnight to Bren and Avery and prepare for bed, my emotions continue to spiral out of control. My fatigue and overwrought mind have nearly reached an irrational, semi-hysterical state.
Garrett’s heavy knuckles rapping on my bedroom door vibrates in my bones. I alternate between scolding myself and freaking out, which doesn’t help my frazzled nerves or ease my exhaustion.
The only people I’ve allowed to see my legs are medical professionals, Kodi, and now Avery. Despite their best attempts to remain stoic, the doctors and therapists had difficulty disguising their pity and horror. As magicless professionals, they didn’t understand how I managed to survive the painful trauma – and they were only considering the physical aspects.
Not all of my guardians can be blind, however, and I can’t spend the rest of my life in the dark. Eventually, I want this man in my bed. This is a test, and it’s better to know now than experience his rejection while I’m full of lust.
A second knock makes me jump. I’m perched on the edge of my bed with a blanket covering my lower body; I refuse to greet him with bare legs. My new wardrobe boasts a couple pairs of shorts that I’d dismissed at first. I’ve never owned shorts because I am either covered by blankets or full-length pants. Although I sleep in an oversized t-shirt, my limited mobility prevents me from leaving my bed quickly. Kodi once joked that I’d stop to put on pants if the fire alarm woke me. He’s not wrong.
“Come in.” The words are barely a whisper and useless because the bedrooms are soundproof. I’d consider it a design flaw, but this is a magic building. He cracks the door open, and I wonder if he heard me after all.
“Can I come in?” The shifter’s husky question elicits something from my body that isn’t anxiety. The desire disappears faster than it arrived when I remind myself why he’s entering my bedroom.
“Yes.” I manage to be louder, but it’s still just a croak. In an attempt to stave off the impending panic attack, I start babbling immediately. “Kodi says all of the bedrooms are soundproofed. Does that mean you can’t hear me through my bedroom door if it’s closed? How did you know it was all right to come in? How did I hear your knock? Does it go both ways?”
He shuts the door behind him, his lips twitching. I’ve always considered my bedroom huge, but his presence makes everything feel smaller. He only spares a glance at the rest of the room before his gaze refocuses on me. He can smell my fear, and he moves slowly and deliberately in an effort to be less threatening.
“I heard your whisper, but I wanted to make certain, so I asked again. The soundproofing is magical as opposed to structural. I believe it permits necessary sounds while blocking others.”
My cheeks heat as I recall the sounds I made last night. I hadn’t restrained my moaning screams when Avery brought me to an ecstatic climax – twice. I force the memory away before my arousal can make the situation more awkward.
The shifter approaches with caution. Since my body doesn’t permit easy flight when my adrenaline kicks in, I usually veer toward fighting. My muscles are so tense that I feel like a fractured ice sculpture. A single touch might shatter me into a million pieces.
Glimpsing the wheeled chair I sometimes use while dressing, Garrett positions it out of arm’s reach and sits. His body language portrays relaxation as he attempts to lessen the intimidation his sheer size presents. “You’ve had some physical therapy sessions?”
I pick at the threads of my quilt and shrug. His casual, patient air is soothing. “Only once or twice. It was a long time ago. The exercises they assigned caused a lot of pain, so I never followed through. The therapists either didn’t bother or couldn’t hide their emotions. Most of them pitied me, and I couldn’t stand it. Some acted like they didn’t care at all. I was just a job to them. That was easier than being pitied but still difficult.” I glance down at the blanket. If Sage didn’t magically mend it every day, I might have unraveled it by now.
“They all wanted to know how my injuries happened. Some didn’t believe I couldn’t remember.” I shrug again. “The orphanage’s caretaker made it more difficult because she didn’t always arrange transportation. After a while, it became too much of a hassle.”
I glance upward to see Garrett’s nod of understanding. I’d deliberately dimmed the lights, and the shadows emphasized the ruggedness of his face. Unlike Bren, Garrett’s appeal is subjective. His intensity can resemble anger, indifference, or condescension. Considering he was raised with privilege and wealth, all are reasonable assumptions.
I’ve tried, but I can’t entirely separate the brothers from their father. It doesn’t make me fear them, however, because we have something in common. Addington sought to control and break all of us, but we survived.
“Can you describe your pain to me? How often do you feel it? How bad does it get? Do certain activities make it worse or better?” The questions are similar to my doctor’s appointments, but Garrett asks them with more compassion.
“I’ve felt less pain since I arrived here. The building’s magic, and perhaps shifting, has changed it from unbearable to just irritating. I think Sage expends energy to decrease my pain, though, and she can’t do that when she’s overwhelmed. Today was worse than it has been.” My gaze slides away from his. “A few other things increase my pain.”
“Pressure? Like when Bren sat in your lap during the storm?” Garrett’s neutral tone isn’t hiding judgment; he’s simply gathering information.
I flinch. “Yes, but please don’t tell him that. I feel like he needed it.”
Although my words are intentionally vague, Garrett understands. He leans forward in the chair, drawing my gaze again. “He did. His magic has never calmed so quickly before. I won’t tell him.”
“I have to ask even though it’s a bit off-topic,” he says after a measured pause that piques my curiosity. “Doesn’t his magic hurt you? I’ve tried to hold him when he loses control, but I can’t get close. The blue sparks prick and burn when they touch my skin. I’ve sucked it up more than once to protect us or other people, but it feels like hugging a flaming porcupine.”
A vision of a flaming blue porcupine prompts amusement despite the situation. I’m also surprised. The sparks had provoked a strange tingle, but they hadn’t hurt. “They didn’t hurt. After the first few, I barely noticed them. When he started to regain control, they almost felt … nice.” My cheeks heat again as I consider how my meaning could be misinterpreted. “I’m not someone who likes pain because I hurt on a daily basis, and I might have a higher tolerance than most. It felt more like energy than pain.” Kodi’s static can be similar, but I don’t mention this.
“Maybe it’s because your magic is more compatible with his than mine. Sphinxes are also mages, but I’m just a shifter.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, back to the main subject. What else besides pressure increases the pain?”
I continue to fidget as I contemplate my answer. The ways I accommodate my body and pain aren’t conscious decisions anymore – they’re habits now. I’ve grown used to the things I do to minimize my pain and rarely think about them. “I suppose too much rest or too much activity. If I’m immobile for a while, my muscles start cramping up. It’s the same when I’m too active. I have to switch often between my chair and my crutches. Sitting makes my thighs and hips ache, but standing causes weakness and pain in my thighs and calves.”
I pause as a thought occurs to me. “You’ve seen braces that can be molded to the legs, right? They’re usually 3D printed and stretch from the hip to the ankle or just around the knee. The joint flexes with the body.”
“I have seen them in physical therapy videos.”
His answer surprises me. Supernaturals wouldn’t have a need for such devices. Shaking off my assumptions, I continue. “A doctor told me that I have enough strength in my legs to use them, but I’d have to relearn how to walk. They’d require a different kind of balance than the braces I have now.” I shrug again. “They’re really expensive.”
Garrett regards me thoughtfully. “Could this be a goal for you? Would you like to learn how to use them?”
I can’t answer right away. It’s never been an option, so I didn’t indulge in the fantasy. Money isn’t an obstacle any longer, though. “Maybe,” I admit. “Once I got the hang of them, I could have my hands free. That’s huge.” My nose wrinkles. “It would be a really steep learning curve, though, and I don’t have the mental capacity right now.” I don’t have to explain why. Our lives are intertwined and both are tumultuous.
“I’ll help you learn.” Garrett’s words sound like a promise. “We could even tailor these sessions with that goal in mind so that it’s easier when the time comes.”
I stare at him and forget to blink. He makes it sound like we’re all going to live happily ever after, and I want to believe him.
“Now, are you feeling more relaxed?”
I roll my shoulders, pushing aside any thoughts of an unknown future. “A little, but that might change.” I offer a shy smile.
“Understandable. I’m going to move closer, but I’ll warn you before I touch you. I know I look intimidating, and it probably feels different when I’m not carrying you.”
He’s not wrong. When he’d held me, he’d felt capable and strong. Now, his presence looms over me. He slowly slides forward, his thick thigh muscles flexing and bunching. When he stops, his knees brush against mine. My pulse flutters and my calves curl around the mattress. My knuckles begin to ache from my tight hold on the blanket.
In this intimate setting, I’m somehow more aware of his beast. Paranormal romances suggest a shifter’s beast lives and moves just under their skin. This isn’t possible, but the metaphor has merit. I am aware of his griffin like I’m aware of Avery’s vampiric predator and Bren’s wild magic. I still don’t fully understand the difference between sphinxes and other shifters. We are one where they are not.
“I want to meet your griffin,” I blurt. “Not right now,” I add quickly. “I caught a glimpse via the gargoyles’ sight when you and Avery saved Kodi, but I’d like to meet him in person … or not in person, but ….” I garble the last few words and look back at my lap. “Does that sound weird?”
When I glance upward, Garrett’s chest looks larger. I think he’s inflated with pride. “It only sounds weird because you’ve been around the magicless too long, kitten. My griffin wants to meet you, too, as a human and a sphinx.” Uncertainty enters his gaze. “Because you’re not accustomed to shifters, though, I should warn you. The beast inside me doesn’t take orders very well, and he’ll want to rub against you – especially if you meet him as a sphinx. He wants to cover you in his scent.”
My mind joins Kodi’s in the gutter. He doesn’t mean it in a sexual way, but I find it sexy. My bestial side wakes and purrs with anticipation. I scold it like a wayward cat and decide I’m not that different from other shifters.
Garrett’s nostrils flare and his massive palms curl into fists on his thighs. “He wants to come out now. He’s difficult to control when he scents your interest.” His voice is harsh with tension and ends in a groan.
“Sorry,” I mumble and redirect my mind by recalling why he’s in my bedroom. My desire is doused in a second.
Garrett rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t like you apologizing for your body’s natural instincts and reactions. I wasn’t scolding you.”
I shrug. “It’s also a natural reaction to think I’m being scolded because I’m so used to it.” My chuckle is humorless.
“I understand. Being criticized every day for years can make a person touchy.” His tone is soft, and I know he’s not just referring to me. It’s hard to remember that he’s faced hardship because he looks so normal. Appearances can be deceiving, and I am a hypocrite if I don’t pay attention to my biases.
“Why are you so scared to let me see your legs?”
My body jerks at the swift change in subject. His gaze is directed to the blanket I’m subconsciously attempting to unravel. My mouth opens and shuts again before I can decide on the right words. Garrett offers the impression that he’d patiently wait all night for my answer. I struggle to make my thoughts coherent but end up frustrated.
“They’re wrong.” If he weren’t equipped with supernatural hearing, he wouldn’t hear me. “They’re scarred, bent, and crooked. They’re disgusting.” The words are a selection of the insults hurled at me since my injuries. My bullies were children or confused teenagers, but the slurs still stuck with me regardless of intent.
“You know it isn’t true, Zosia. Not being normal doesn’t make something ugly or disgusting. Is Bren ugly because he’s different?”
“It’s not the same,” I automatically argue. From the moment I entered society, I’ve watched beautiful people on screens, seen them in magazines, and read about them in books. The media typically presents heroes as beautiful and villains as ugly. I’ve never seen a movie or read a book that portrayed the main character in a wheelchair.
I can’t entirely blame the media or pop culture for my issues. The first thing I noticed about my guardians was their attractiveness. Some might claim it as a biological impetus, but I consider it an easy excuse. Abnormal bodies are hidden, ridiculed, and sometimes feared in a society where supernatural aberrations are accepted.
“It’s been scientifically proven that the human mind finds symmetry pleasing. My legs are uneven and don’t match.” A thread actually comes loose in my fingers, and I stare at it without seeing it. “I also don’t shave. I know it’s preferred that women shave, but it’s difficult with the scars. It’s also a pain in the butt and no one ever sees my legs ….” My excuses trail into silence.
When Garrett responds, he speaks in a matter-of-fact tone that helps me distance myself from my emotions. “First of all, I’m a shifter. Hair might bother the magicless, but it doesn’t bother us. Most shifter females don’t bother. Second of all, I’ve been surrounded by beauty and perfection since birth.” His gaze remains on me as he remembers the past, but I can’t hold it for long. “A symmetrical face or body can disguise horrible intentions. I realize it’s not true for everyone, but I learned early not to judge someone by their appearance. From the moment my balls dropped, Addington paraded women in front of me. Most of them were models and actresses – they were beautiful subjectively and objectively.”
He’s lost in memories now, looking down at his lap as a grimace stretches his lips. “I thought there was something wrong with me at first. I even wondered if I was gay. I didn’t find most of the women attractive.”
I briefly abandon my systematic destruction of the quilt. His words are entirely honest, but I only know this because of the library’s help. If she hadn’t included the honesty clause, would I believe a word from their mouths? Did she do this on purpose?
“I’m perfectly straight, although I used to wish I wasn’t.” Garrett’s grin turns wicked. “Addington would have been furious.”
The thought brings a matching smile to my face.
“After he tested me for steroids, Addington decided I was a late bloomer. I let him believe that even after I realized the issue because I knew he wouldn’t understand.”
His pause makes me realize that I’m anxious to hear the rest. I don’t particularly care about his sexual exploits, but his account offers new insight into the man under the muscle. I feel closer to him than I have since he arrived.
“A servant that lived on the grounds for a short time had a daughter around Bren’s age. We weren’t supposed to talk to her for various reasons. Supposedly, the child’s mother had requested distance, but I think it was Addington’s decision. He didn’t want us associating with a magicless servant’s child. She would bring her dolls out to play in the back garden, though, and I would watch her through the window. Those dolls were …weird. They were made of plastic, they had perfectly shaped boobs, narrow waists, and their feet were permanently on tiptoes. I know they have others, but the ones the girls played with all had long, straight, blonde hair, pale white skin, and wide, painted smiles.” He shudders dramatically. “Bren was actually scared of them.”
The orphanage’s pitiful collection of cast-off toys had boasted a few of these dolls. The ones I saw were often missing their heads or hair and painted with colorful marker tattoos. I know what a new one looks like, however. The magicless and supernaturals are both bombarded with advertisements to encourage our nation’s consumerist culture.
“It took me a while to realize that I thought of the women Addington brought to me as dolls. Some of them were gorgeous, true, but my body didn’t seem to care. Although our minds might appreciate symmetry, my beast and my dick didn’t consider them potential mates for a second. Our brains can fuck with us, and my brain saw those women as dolls – they just seemed unreal.”
His gaze captures mine, and I hold it this time. “When I first saw you, I saw a real person with genuine fire. I saw a woman whose story of survival wasn’t hidden behind cold smiles and too much makeup. I saw someone who might understand me.” His fervent words make me squirm with discomfort, but I think I believe him.
“I love my brother,” he continues, “but I’d dared to wish I might find a mate who understood me too. Without Bren, I wouldn’t have known that relationships could be warm and meaningful. I would have grown up as cold as everyone else around me.”
Kodi’s face pops into my head, and I nod with understanding. Garrett protected his brother like Kodi protected me, but all four of us benefited from our relationships. We learned compassion and empathy in a world that was designed to give us pain and fear.
Garrett’s vulnerability is visible, and the library’s insight insists that he believes every word. He isn’t trying to placate me or soothe my insecurities. I almost reach for him, but I don’t. Actions speak louder than words, and he hasn’t seen my legs yet. He might think he can handle it, but I’ve seen trained doctors shy away.
“That was a long-winded way of saying that I think you’re beautiful, Zosia. Alphas are supposed to be leaders and protectors, and seeing you in pain is hard for me. One session of stretching and massage won’t produce a miracle, but a routine will prepare you for those braces.”
The prospect is appealing. Molded braces would allow me to walk upright with the others instead of hunched over my crutches or trapped in my chair. I’d also be able to carry things. Most importantly, it will offer me a sense of independence.
Oblivious to the hope tentatively growing inside me, Garrett continues. “Doing this isn’t entirely unselfish. Of course, I want you to feel less pain, but I have other reasons.” His confession pulls me out of my brief daydream.
“Oh?”
His expression is almost sheepish when he nods. “It’s petty and somewhat childish, but it makes me feel like I’m choosing my own path. If I’d been anyone but Addington’s heir, I’d already be starting a career. I like to think it would have been something like this – sports therapy or physical rehabilitation – or I might have been a chef.” His broad shoulders rise and fall. “Here, I can kind of do both even if they’re not an actual career. Addington would absolutely hate that I’m doing anything like this, even as a part-time interest.” His explanation is both wistful and rueful. Neither of us points out that he would have been a different person if he hadn’t been Addington’s heir; it’s unimportant.
“Besides sticking it to my asshole father, increasing your strength will increase your confidence. I think everyone will benefit from this, and we’ll be able to concentrate more completely on our duties.”
His brutal honesty makes me flinch. It might be considered manipulative, but I don’t blame him for not pulling any punches. Holding onto my pain because of embarrassment doesn’t affect just me. It could distract and potentially hurt everyone. We’re supposed to be a team, but I’m not acting like a team member.
I inhale deeply as I brace myself and sweep aside the blanket concealing my legs. I breathe through my anxiety as Garrett’s face and body display every emotion. He doesn’t hide them, and I’m grateful for his honesty. I expect the flash of shock and clinical assessment, but I’m not prepared for his most prominent reaction. I see the tension in his muscles and the vein pulsing in his neck, but our incomplete bond projects the emotion to me as an ache in my chest.
“I ….” He sucks in a ragged breath before continuing. “I didn’t expect to be so angry.” The raw quality of his words suggests that he’s holding back roaring screams, tears, or both.
“Our father did this to you. His hand might not have held the weapon, but this was done on his orders. He was cruel to us, but it was nothing like this. We had wealth and comfort.”
I fidget with the blanket again as I try to sort through his words. Does he feel sorry for me?
Perhaps sensing my unspoken question, Garrett’s amber gaze meets mine. “This is not pity, Zosia. Pity is usually condescending or belittling. Your strength of will and determination to survive is unquestionable, though, and I’m awed by it. You’re amazing.”
Heat suffuses my entire body. He’s saying all the right things and his emotions uphold his sincerity. I’ve always considered myself a survivor, but it’s gratifying to hear confirmation. Still, his intensity is making me nervous, so I try to deflect his attention.
“You and Bren are survivors too,” I insist. “The method of Addington’s cruelty doesn’t matter. In fact, it might have been easier for me in some ways.”
He huffs in disbelief.
“Just hear me out.” I talk over him when he starts to argue. “My world had no illusions. I didn’t expect love, kindness, or fatherly affection because I was a prisoner and nothing more. I didn’t worry about whether I’d do something to anger or disappoint my captors because a relationship didn’t exist. I’m not trying to make this a competition. I just want to point out that he tried to break all of us – just in different ways.” I meet his gaze again. “He didn’t succeed.”
We maintain eye contact, neither of us wavering. The dark brown with hints of yellow is so different from Bren’s that it’s hard to believe they’re brothers.
“No, he didn’t. Even without revenge, our existence right now – together – proves it.” Self-assured firmness bolsters his words.
This surprisingly uninhibited and intimate discussion has affected me in ways I can’t express yet. He might appear whole and unmarked by life, but he has suffered in similar ways. This understanding collapses the final barriers regarding my injuries.
“Okay.” Despite my determination, the word emerges in a higher pitch than my usual voice. “I’m ready for you to do your thing.”
He searches my face for confirmation, and I’m afraid I’ll change my mind if he stalls. I take the first step by lifting my left leg up for him. He takes it in his warm hands and scoots the chair even closer to lessen how far I have to stretch. After a second, he grunts and fiddles with the chair so that it’s lower. His body appears cramped in this position, but it’s better for me.
Then, he begins a tentative exploration. His movements grow more certain as he evaluates my breathing and comfort level. I am surprisingly okay, and he relaxes at the realization.
He seems particularly skilled despite saying he’s only researched it as a hobby. His movements are methodical as he tests the range of motion in each of my leg joints and locates the trigger points that form constant knots in my muscles due to overcompensation and poor stretching over the years. After his initial evaluation of my left leg, he moves to my right leg and does the same.
My right leg is worse than my left, particularly below my calf, and my fears squawk for my attention. I push them away, focusing on Garrett instead of myself. The shifter’s huge hands could easily span my ankles, and his body radiates as much warmth as a therapeutic heating pad. The solidity of his warm thighs is impressive and almost unbelievable.
He directs his gaze toward his lap as he focuses, and the dim light casts the rugged planes of his face into shadow. His thick, dark lashes, similar to Bren’s, create crescent shapes on his cheeks.
“You said you had some salve? Your muscles are really tight, and it will help me massage them.” His voice startles me when it breaks the concentrated silence.
I nod and bob my head toward the dresser on his right. Garrett doesn’t release my leg as he reaches for the container and removes the lid. A single eyebrow rises when he sees that it’s barely touched. I shrug sheepishly. I’ve been far too tired to bother.
I expect him to dip his fingers into the oily substance and begin immediately, but his gaze slides up my body instead. I glance down automatically. Did I drop food on my shirt during dinner? Does the way I’m sitting make my boobs hang out? I’m still covered and clean, though.
“Your muscles won’t relax until you’re relaxed. That position can’t be comfortable.”
I’m accustomed to discomfort and had been too preoccupied with my fear to notice. Now that he’s pointed it out, however, I notice the ache in my wrists and arms from supporting my upper body.
“What do you propose?” My interest isn’t only for me. I can’t help but notice how cramped he is in the wheeled chair. His knees are nearly chest level.
“Can you put your back against the headboard … or lie down? I can stand for this side, and I’ll kneel on the bed to do that side.”
His words make perfect sense, but my pulse skips a beat as I imagine him kneeling on the bed near my legs. I begin to think of Avery in a similar position before I slam the door shut on the thought. His supernatural sense of smell is more than a little irritating.
I don’t move immediately and he interprets my stillness as wariness. “I promise that my touch will remain professional, Zosia.”
Rearranging myself on the bed distracts me from the specificity of his vow. He hadn’t promised to keep his gaze or his thoughts professional. I prop multiple pillows behind me so that I’m not necessarily sitting or lying flat. I sigh with pleasure when my arms and neck are released from their strain.
“Thank you. I hadn’t even realized I was uncomfortable.”
Garrett doesn’t respond. When I turn, he’s staring at me. I hadn’t bothered to move the blanket with me, and the shorts the library provides are skimpy. They’re little more than a pair of female boxer briefs. My cheeks are on fire as I reach for the blanket. His hand catches mine.
“You can cover yourself if it will make you more comfortable, but don’t do it for any other reason.”
His words are so unexpected that my hand unclenches on the blanket as I consider why I feel the need to hide. I’m not cold, so there’s no need for warmth. The essential parts are covered, so I’m not feeling indecent or immodest. Habit and fear are what remain. I’m used to covering up, and I’m scared he’ll judge me – not just my injuries but my body too. No matter how much I search his face, though, I don’t sense any hint of criticism, distaste, or aversion.
I swallow hard and relinquish my grip on the blanket before reclining again.
“Thank you,” he whispers hoarsely before rising from the chair.
His words echo in my mind as he coats his fingers with the salve and begins with my lower calf. Why would he thank me? It’s not as if my body is a gorgeous spectacle. Is it because the act indicates trust? Since I can’t confirm anything, I choose to let it go.
With methodical and thorough skill, Garrett massages the salve into my tight muscles. The tingle from the healing herbs and the pressure of his fingers melt my pain and thoughts away. After working my tight calf muscle, he descends to my foot. It feels so good that I don’t spare a worry for the horrid deformity of my right foot.
He moves upward once my foot feels lighter than air and pleasantly separated from my body. When his touch ventures past my knee, I peek at him through slit eyelids. The kneading pressure remains steady, but something shifts. A muscle ticks in his jaw and his pulse flutters faster in his neck. His gaze occasionally strays toward my upper thighs and the juncture of my legs.
Languid desire makes my breath hitch when his tongue darts out to lick his lips. Before he continues further, however, he gently sets my leg on the bed. His hands never leave my skin, one of them stroking down the limb he just massaged as he maneuvers into a kneeling position on my other side. The bed dips with his weight, but the mattress is firm enough that I don’t roll toward him.
Armed with more salve, he begins again. The firm pressure, medicinal herbs, and my exhaustion soon lull me into a state of content pleasure. As I sink further into my pile of pillows, an occasional moan sneaks past my lips.
A shift in the air alerts me when his hand reaches the bottom of my left thigh. I force my eyelids open and notice that his body is stiffer and his breaths are shallow. Unaware that I’m watching him, his gaze is hungry when it centers on my hips, upper thighs, and crotch. The banked fire in my lower abdomen flares, and my next moan carries a husky sensuality.
I’m dumbfounded that my most hated body parts elicit desire in him. However, the evidence is clearly written on his face and body, and my sphinx’s sense of smell confirms it. The realization shifts from shocking to empowering.
The sound of his throat clearing pierces my foggy awareness. “I need to stop here or I’ll break my promise.” His words are measured and controlled, but his fingers twitch. One of his hands splays across my thigh, covering an impressive amount of skin.
I want to ask him to massage higher. I want to feel the promise of his desire, not his professionalism, but a forceful yawn steals my breath when I open my mouth. Within seconds, another follows.
“Damn,” I pout. “I want … but too tired.”
His chuckle is sweet and sensuous. “Next time, kitten. I want you fully awake for that wanting.” His words sound like a promise as he carefully removes a few pillows and pulls the blankets up to cover my body. Each touch is tender and sweet despite his size and gruff nature. After he arranges my bedding, his lips graze my cheek.
“Next time,” I whisper as my eyes drift shut. For the first time in memory, pain, fear, and worry don’t prevent me from falling asleep immediately.