53. Chapter 53
fifty-three
Skye
“You do know I’m not, like, disabled or anything, right?” Boston laughs as Jake dashes ahead to unlock the apartment door while I walk beside him, my arm hooked under his right, uninjured arm. “I just have my arm in a sling. And it’s not even my dominant side,” he adds, still laughing.
God, his laugh. It’s one of my favorite sounds in the entire world. A little raspy now, a little tired around the edges, but still so unmistakably him.
After only two days in the hospital, Boston was deemed stable enough to be discharged.
He still has weeks to go before he’ll even be cleared for physical therapy, but the second they said he could go home, his whole face lit up like it was Christmas morning.
It’s the most life I’ve seen in him since… well, since my engagement to Archer.
I called Jake. Caught him just as he was about to leave for St. Paul where classes will start for him in a couple of days. He insisted on making a small detour to meet us at Boston’s place for “a proper goodbye.”
“Why don’t you do me a favor, shut up and let us help you, for fuck’s sake,” Jake says with a chuckle.
Once we’re inside, Jake steps toward Boston. “I gotta hit the road.” He carefully pulls Boston into a one-armed hug, mindful of the sling, then pulls back. “I’m coming home every weekend.”
Boston shakes his head. “Jake, you don’t nee—”
Jake presses his index finger to Boston’s lips.
“Shh,” he hisses, making me cackle very unladylike.
“I’ll be here every weekend. I know Skye plans to make regular trips, but it’s a hell of a lot harder for her to make a six-hour drive than for me to make a one-hour trek.
Sure, I’m not as beautiful as she is, and I definitely won’t put out for you, but I make a mean bowl of buttered noodles. ”
Boston laughs, the sound hoarse but genuine. “Those buttered noodles once a week are going to be life-sustaining.”
“You know it. Alright.” Jake glances between us and grins. “I’ll leave the two lovebirds to it. Boss, if there’s anything you need, call me!”
The door clicks shut behind Jake, and I look up at Boston. “You hungry?”
He stretches, his one good arm sweeping overhead, and I catch the flicker of fatigue in his features. “Not really. I think I’m gonna take a quick shower,” he says, voice trailing off as he turns toward the master bedroom.
“I’ll help you.”
He glances over his shoulder. “Stormy, I don’t need—” He stops himself mid-sentence, his eyes darkening as a slow smirk spreads across his lips. “Actually… yeah, maybe I do need help in the shower.”
I grin at his mischief, and even though that kind of help wasn’t my original intent, I don’t hate how my body responds to the hunger in his eyes as they drift lazily down my body.
It’s been months since I’ve felt Boston, though I’ve imagined his hands on me hundreds of times since he ended things between us. I’m almost giddy with desire as I lead the way into the master bathroom.
I turn on the shower, the water hissing to life behind me. When I turn, Boston’s standing in the bathroom, just watching me. Where there was heat in his gaze only a moment ago, there’s now an openness, an almost childlike incredulity.
I step toward him, slow on purpose, until I’m close enough to feel his body heat. “You okay?”
He breathes a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Just… trying to convince myself you’re really here.”
A smile spreads across my lips. “I am. And I’m not going anywhere.”
He studies me, almost like some part of him still expects to wake up and find out this was just another dream.
“And you know what else?” I tilt my head up until our mouths are only an inch apart. “I love you. And I choose you.”
He stills.
“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that,” he whispers.
“How long?”
He shakes his head, eyes locked on mine. “Exactly as long as I’ve loved you.” He smiles softly. “My whole life.”
My breath hitches and I seal my lips to his. Slow at first. Soft and unhurried.
He keeps my pace, not rushing this moment. Just the sensual dance of our tongues, the careful caress of hands on skin.
I strip my clothes first, holding his eye contact the entire time and, god, I love how he responds.
Not with words, but with every expression, every reaction.
His pupils dilate when my bra falls to the floor, and the rise and fall of his chest turns shallow and ragged when I finally step out of my panties.
Then I turn my attention to him, undressing him slowly, methodically. Not just because of the sling binding his injured arm to his chest, but because there’s something delicious about the anticipation, the quiet ache that builds with each inch of skin revealed.
I peel his zip-up hoodie back from his good shoulder first, then carefully ease it away from the immobilized arm. His skin is warm, slightly damp with the steam building in the small space. My fingers graze down his chest, tracing the ridges of his lower abs, and his breath stutters.
When I lean in and flick my tongue over his nipple, he groans. The sound—low and guttural—makes its way straight to my core where need is already pooling.
“You okay?” I murmur, lifting my gaze to his.
He nods, eyes heavy.
“Good,” I whisper, and slip my hand into the waistband of his sweats and boxers. I curl my fingers around his length.
He’s already hard.
I stroke him, slow and steady, and his lips part with a shaky inhale. His core tightens as his hips shift, but he doesn’t take more than I give.
“Skye…” he breathes, voice raw, composure fraying when I circle my thumb over his tip.
I lower myself onto my knees in front of him, pulling his sweats and boxers down. His eyes are dark, tracking my movement. Mine are upturned, locked on his while I gather my hair in a ponytail.
The bob of his Adam’s apple makes me smile.
When my hair is tied back, I grasp his erection, then lick the crown once. God, he’s delicious, addictively masculine.
His head tips back against the wall with a low thud. I see it in the tension of his jaw, the flex of his thighs—every inch of him is trying not to fall apart already.
I take him into my mouth, shallow at first, sucking gently. His breath hitches and his eyes slam shut.
The next pass is deeper, tighter. Then slower again. A swirl of tongue, a soft kiss to the underside, a flick over the sensitive ridge of the head.
Boston moans, a choked sound high in his throat.
It turns me on so much. Already the spot between my thighs is aching for him.
But I keep my pace teasing, dragging it out.
My hand joins in, stroking him with a slight twist on the downward motion while I suck.
Harder this time. His hips buck and I pull away, just long enough for his body to twitch with the absence of touch.
Then I start again. Sucking, stroking, licking, twisting.
“Stormy…” he gasps.
His one good hand finds my hair, but once again he doesn’t push. He gently guides my movements, giving me every ounce of control because he knows what it means to have it taken away.
So I reward that trust.
I flatten my tongue along his length, slow and firm, and taste the first salty bead of pre-cum. I hum around him, relishing that raw, helpful sound escaping him. It makes my thighs clench.
“I’m close,” he warns, already breathless.
I release him with a wet pop, blinking up at him. “You don’t get to come yet.”
He groans and lets his head thunk softly back against the wall, surrendering to me. I wait a fraction of a second, his cock twitching in anticipation. Then I take him again, starting even slower. Crueler.
Each time I feel him spiral toward the edge, I pull back, lips and hands leaving him cold, edging him all the way to the brink only to let up again.
I do it once, twice, three times. By the fourth time, he’s cursing under his breath, muttering my name like it’s both a plea and a warning.
I can feel how badly he wants to come. And I want to give it to him just as bad.
But not yet.
Instead, I stand. Boston’s trembling, every muscle in his body drawn tight, his eyes half-lidded, glassy with need. He’s rock-hard, leaking at the tip, and so sensitive he sucks in a sharp breath when my fingers graze his silky, hot skin.
“Skye…” he rasps. “Please.”
I back up to the counter, eyes locked on his, and push myself up onto it, the surface cool against my heated thighs. I brace my hands behind me and spread my legs slowly in silent invitation. God, I’m aching for him.
Boston’s eyes drop exactly where I knew they would.
“Fuck,” he groans. “I’m still not convinced I didn’t die and go to heaven.” He steps between my legs, his hand sliding up my thigh to my hip.
I cross my ankles behind his waist and pull him in. Then his mouth is on mine, his tongue tracing mine in slow, possessive strokes. His body presses forward, and I feel his hardness nudge against me, thick and warm.
“Go slow,” I whisper against his lips. “Let me savor you.”
His forehead drops to mine and he sinks into me with one slow thrust. My whole body arches, clenching, stretching around him, then yielding to his size.
The fullness is overwhelming and, god, so perfect.
He pulls me forward, entering me deeper still.
My ass teeters on the edge of the counter, but I don’t care. I can barely breathe.
“Holy fuck,” Boston grits, his voice strangled. “You feel… Jesus, Skye.”
He pushes as far as he can go—as much as I can take him—then stills, breath trembling, fingers digging into my thigh as he holds himself there.
I open my eyes. God, he’s beautiful. Lips parted, eyes dark with want, the flush high on his cheeks as he tries to hold on to the last shred of rationality. But all I want is for him to let go.
“Move,” I whisper.
And he does.
His hips roll, controlled and sensual, the sound of our bodies colliding slick and delicious. Every thrust is more addictive than the last as Boston worships my body—worships me—from the inside out.
My legs tighten around his waist. “Harder.”
He obliges, driving into me again, deeper, a little rougher now, angling just right, and I cry out, the sound echoing off the tile. My head falls back. My nails dig into his skin. The pressure builds in a dizzying, spiraling climb.
I feel him everywhere. He’s breathing hard into my neck, kissing, biting, panting, his thrusts steady but losing rhythm with every second.
The pleasure in me coils tighter and tighter.
“God, Boss, I’m—” My voice breaks with a gasp.
Boston groans in response, his breath hot against me. He moves his hand between us, drawing tight, controlled circles over my clit.
I explode around him, pulsing, crying out his name as the orgasm rips through me in waves. Boston’s right there with me, hips stuttering, thrusts going shallow as he spills into me with a low, drawn-out curse.
We stay here for a long moment, our bodies still joined, breaths still uneven, my body humming with aftershocks.
When my heart rate settles, I pull back, looking at him.
At the way his chest rises and falls, the light sheen of sweat and steam making his skin glisten.
The way his eyes stay closed, lips parted like he’s trying to catch up with his own body.
My gaze drops, trailing the lines of his still-taut muscles.
And then I notice. My brows knit slightly, confusion flickering through me.
“Oh,” I breathe. His eyes open and find mine. “I thought… you finished.”
He nods, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip, wetting it. “I did.”
I hesitate, my eyes dropping again, then rising back up. “But you’re still hard,” I mutter, stunned.
He glances down at himself. “Yeah.”
“Does it… hurt?”
I admit I don’t have a lot of experience. I’ve only ever been with one guy before Boston, and Archer was soft within seconds of his climax.
“Not really,” Boston says. “But it’s sensitive as hell.”
I clear my throat quietly, sliding off the bathroom counter in front of him. “Could you… go again? Like, right now?” I ask, cautious.
He nods.
I blink. “I didn’t think that was a thing.”
A shadow of embarrassment darkens his face. “Not exactly common, but”—he swallows hard—“turns out our bodies adapt.”
His gaze drops.
It clicks. This has something to do with Mrs. Davis, I’m sure. Her “girls’ nights.” But I won’t bring him down further.
I smile, then slowly lower myself back onto my knees.
“No, Skye, you don’t have to. This—he’ll relax in a few minutes.”
I nod, eyes turned up at him. “I know that, Boss. I want to.”
His fingers flex at his side, caught between instinct and restraint.
I pause. Consider him.
“You can tell me to stop.” I won’t be another person taking that power from him. “And I’ll stop. Right now. If you don’t want me to touch you, I won’t.”
He doesn’t move away or speak. He just studies me a moment longer, then moves his hand to my head, his fingers lacing through the strands lightly, not forcing anything, but definitely not stopping me, either.
“I’ll be gentle,” I whisper.
And this time, when I take him into my mouth again, it’s slower. Softer.
It’s not about pushing him to the edge, but about staying right here with him. About meeting only his needs.
Both the physical and emotional.
We do shower.
Eventually.
I help him wash, dry off, and get into clean clothes before I shoo him to the couch. He laughs when I throw a blanket over him, ordering him to rest.
“I’m not disabled, Stormy,” he reminds me with a chuckle, but I just wave him off and stroll the few feet into the kitchen. Twenty minutes later, I plate a simple pasta dish… and Boston is asleep on the couch.
I set the plates down on the coffee table, then crouch down and brush a hand through his hair.
“Boss. Dinner’s ready,” I whisper.
His eyes flutter open, heavy with sleep. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to crash.”
I shake my head, smiling. “No need to apologize.”
“You wiped me out, Stormy,” he says, stretching his good arm over his head.
I grin. “Better eat up and recharge now. We have one more night before Cassie and Bronx come home.”
Boston refused to let them visit him at the hospital because he was too worried about scaring them after everything they’d already been through. So they’ve been with my parents, getting spoiled rotten.
He sits up, eyebrows raised. “You’re spending the night?”
I don’t miss the hopefulness in his voice.
“Yeah. I’d like to, if that’s okay?”
He smiles and pulls me against him carefully. “I want you to stay. Tonight. And all the nights after. I love you, Stormy.”
I press my forehead to his. “I love you, too,” I whisper. “Always have. Always will.”
And finally, I let myself fall.
Into love.
Into Boston.
The End