Chapter Two #3
The pressure against my unexpected erection intensified, and I gasped into his mouth. Connor swallowed the sound eagerly, his hips making a small, experimental movement that sent sparks of pleasure shooting through me.
"I want to see you," he whispered against my lips. "All of you."
His hands moved to the waistband of my pajama bottoms again, and this time I didn't stop him. I lifted my hips as much as I could to help as he tugged the fabric down.
I felt a moment of self-consciousness as my lower body was revealed—the musculature altered by years of disuse, the scars more prominent here than on my upper body.
But Connor's gaze held no pity, no revulsion. Instead, his eyes darkened with desire as they swept over me.
"You're perfect," he said, his voice hushed.
I almost protested the absurdity of the statement. Perfect was the last thing I was. Perfect belonged to the man I'd been before the accident—whole, unmarked, confident in my body's capabilities. The man I was now was held together with surgical steel and stubborn determination.
But something in Connor's expression stopped the denial before it reached my lips.
He was looking at me not with the clinical assessment of doctors or the awkward avoidance of acquaintances, but with genuine appreciation.
As if the scars were simply part of the landscape of my body rather than markers of damage.
His hands followed his gaze, tracing the lines of my hips, my thighs. When his fingers brushed against one of the longer scars on my leg, I tensed involuntarily, waiting for the questions, for the shift in mood that usually accompanied such discoveries.
Instead, Connor leaned down and pressed a kiss to the scar tissue, his lips gentle against the raised ridge. The tenderness of the gesture made my throat tight with an emotion I couldn't name.
"Thank you for letting me see you," he said, his eyes meeting mine as he straightened.
The rustle of remaining clothing being removed filled the quiet room as I pushed my pajama shirt completely off, surrendering to the moment with a completeness that should have terrified me.
I was exposed now—not just physically but emotionally—in a way I hadn't allowed myself to be since before the accident.
Connor settled back onto my lap, our naked bodies finally meeting without barriers. The sensation of skin against skin was overwhelming after so long without such contact.
He was warm and solid and real, his weight anchoring me to the present when I might have otherwise dissociated from the intensity of the experience.
His hands framed my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones with surprising tenderness given his drugged state. "Is this okay?" he asked, a moment of lucidity breaking through.
The question almost made me laugh. Was it okay? Nothing about this situation was okay. He was drugged. I was disabled. We were strangers caught in extraordinary circumstances. By any rational measure, what we were doing was ill-advised at best, potentially harmful at worst.
And yet, as I looked into his eyes—blue-gray and earnest despite the dilation of his pupils—I couldn't bring myself to end it.
"Yes," I said finally, my hands settling on his hips. "This is okay."
The smile that broke across his face was like sunrise after the longest night, brilliant and warming. He leaned forward to kiss me again, his body pressing insistently against mine, and I surrendered to the heat building between us.
What followed was a night of discovery that defied everything I'd accepted about my post-accident life.
Connor's hands and mouth explored my body with a combination of reverence and hunger that left me breathless. Each touch awakened nerve endings I'd thought permanently dormant, sending electric currents of pleasure racing through paths I'd believed forever closed.
I found myself responding with increasing intensity, sounds escaping my lips that I never thought I'd make again—deep groans when his mouth found sensitive spots on my neck, sharp gasps when his fingers traced the ridges of my hipbones, broken whispers of encouragement when he ventured lower.
"You're so responsive," Connor murmured against my collarbone, his voice carrying a note of wonder. "So beautiful when you let go."
I wanted to tell him that I hadn't "let go" in three years—that I'd held myself together with iron control, never allowing myself to be vulnerable, never permitting desire to breach my carefully constructed defenses.
But the words caught in my throat as his lips moved down my chest, his tongue tracing patterns that made coherent thought impossible.
Unlike the clinical touches of physical therapists or the awkward assistance of home health aides, Connor touched me like I was whole.
His fingers found the scars that mapped the geography of my accident, but instead of avoiding them or treating them with pitying gentleness, he incorporated them into his exploration.
He kissed the longest one—a jagged line that ran from my ribs to my hip—with the same enthusiasm he showed for the unmarked skin of my chest.
"These are part of you," he said when he caught me watching him, his eyes clearer than they had been earlier. The drug was still in his system—evident in the slight slurring of his words and the flush on his cheeks—but there was genuine awareness in his gaze. "They're beautiful, too."
"They're not," I argued, an automatic response after years of seeing them as evidence of my failure, my weakness.
"They are to me," he insisted, pressing another kiss to the raised tissue. "They show you survived. That you're strong."
Something about his simple acceptance broke through defenses I hadn't even realized I still maintained. I reached for him, pulling him up for a kiss that contained all the emotions I couldn't voice—gratitude, wonder, a desperate hunger I'd thought permanently extinguished.
The kiss deepened, our tongues tangling as his body pressed against mine. The weight of him was intoxicating, the heat of his skin against mine a revelation. When his hips rolled, creating friction against my unexpected erection, I gasped into his mouth.
"Tell me what you want," he whispered against my lips. "Tell me how to make you feel good."
The question caught me off guard. What did I want? I'd spent so long convinced that sexual pleasure was a closed chapter in my life that I hadn't allowed myself to want anything.
I'd redirected my energy into my company, into rebuilding my life around what I could still do rather than mourning what I'd lost. But now, with Connor's body warm and willing against mine, desire roared back to life with staggering force.
"Touch me," I said finally, my voice rough with need. "Everywhere."
He didn't need further encouragement. His mouth returned to its exploration, working its way down my body with determined focus.
When he reached my navel, he glanced up at me, a question in his eyes. I nodded, unable to form words as anticipation built.
The first touch of his mouth on my erection drew a sound from me I barely recognized—half groan, half sob.
Pleasure sharp enough to be almost painful rocketed through me, sensation where I'd resigned myself to numbness.
My hands fisted in the sheets, knuckles turning white as I fought to maintain some semblance of control.
"Yes," I hissed as he established a rhythm that had my toes curling. "God, yes."
He hummed in response, the vibration adding another layer to the already overwhelming sensation. My hips jerked reflexively, an automatic response I'd thought lost to me forever.
But even as pleasure built, I found myself wanting more—wanting to touch as well as be touched, to give as well as receive. I reached down, threading my fingers through Connor's hair.
"Come here," I urged, tugging gently.
He looked up, lips swollen and eyes questioning, but complied, sliding back up my body until we were face to face again. I captured his mouth in a hungry kiss while my hands began their own exploration of his body.
I traced the lean muscle of his back, the curve of his spine, the firm roundness of his ass. Each touch drew responses from him—little sighs and moans that fed my growing confidence.
For three years, I'd been the recipient of care, of assistance. I'd forgotten what it felt like to be the one giving pleasure, to be the cause of someone else's gasps and shivers. The rediscovery was intoxicating.
"Yes, there," Connor encouraged as my fingers found a particularly sensitive spot. "Don't stop."
I didn't plan to.
I flipped our positions with a surge of strength that surprised even me, using my upper body to maneuver us until Connor lay beneath me, his lean form stretched out against the tangled sheets.
The new position allowed me to take control in a way that bypassed the limitations of my lower body, letting me use my arms and torso to maintain contact where it mattered most.
"Julian," he gasped as our erections aligned, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through both of us. "Please."
The plea in his voice drove me to a boldness I hadn't anticipated. I reached between us, taking both of us in hand, and established a rhythm that had Connor arching beneath me.
"Is this what you want?" I asked, my voice barely recognizable even to my own ears—deeper, rougher with desire.
"Yes," he moaned, his hips moving in counterpoint to my hand. "Just like that."
We found a rhythm together, our bodies slick with sweat as desire built toward an inevitable crescendo. The room filled with the sounds of our mingled gasps and whispered encouragements.
"You feel so good," I murmured against his neck, inhaling the scent of him—a mix of hotel soap, sweat, and something uniquely Connor that I already found myself craving.
"So do you," he replied, his hands roaming my back, tracing the muscles there with appreciative fingers. "Better than I imagined."
The thought that he had imagined this—imagined us together—sent another surge of heat through me.