Shattered Dreams (Shattered #2)

10. CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER TEN

Blissful. For the first time ever, that’s how I’d describe my life. I’m floating on air, cocooned in perfection.

My days pass as usual – work, workouts, group dinners, movies, music, and weekend outings.

My nights? They’re exquisite.

Once I’d made it clear that mutual enjoyment was my requirement for our shower sessions, Mark succumbed, and though it’s – by his own description – like being a teenager in the back of a station wagon, neither of us gives a damn. It works for us. Mark wears his boxer briefs, and I wear lacy boyshort underwear, removing my shirt before stepping into the shower. I dim the bathroom lights so I can’t see my scars, but as soon as our bodies tangle together, I forget about them. We haven’t actually had sex yet, but I’ve had more orgasms with Mark than I’ve had in my entire life.

Yeah. I said yet.

Because I’m pretty sure we’re close to taking that final step.

The last Thursday in July dawns hot and muggy. A gloriously bright sunrise greets us as Mark and I head for the VA in Pueblo for two days of pre-op tests and consults. Ribbons of pink, orange, and gold peek through lanky fir trees and craggy peaks as we wind our way north. Traffic is light, which is good, because it’s going to be a long day. Nothing ever moves quickly at the VA. If all goes well, though, he’ll be approved for surgery.

We arrive in Pueblo in plenty of time to enjoy a delicious pancake breakfast. At one point, Mark grins, leaning over and licking the syrup off my lips. I wrap my arms around him, returning the favor. Only when cheers erupt around us do I remember we’re in public and dial down the PDA, blushing furiously.

Mark chuckles when he leans back, clearly pleased with himself. “You’re sexy when you blush.” When I feel his hand grazing my inner thigh, my face gets even hotter.

“You’re only doing that to make it worse,” I hiss.

“Come sit on my lap. I promise I’ll fix what ails you,” he winks.

A voice at his shoulder startles him, and I watch as our waitress, a plump woman in her sixties with a nametag reading Hazel, leans over and cups his cheek. “You promise, do you? Cuz I’ll take a seat on your lap, Sugar. I’ve got a lot of things that need fixing.”

Mark’s mouth opens and closes like a fish on a riverbank, and I burst out laughing. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights. “Sorry, honey,” she says to me, “but he needed his jets cooled.” She pushes her glasses down her nose and bumps her ample hip against him. “But if your offer still stands, I have a break coming up in a few minutes.”

I’m still giggling when Hazel winks and sashays into the kitchen.

“It’s not that damn funny,” Mark says, trying to hide a smile.

“Please. If it happened to Tucker, you’d laugh till you passed out.”

“Oh, God,” he groans, “you’re not going to tell him, are you?”

I shake my head, and he looks relieved until I continue. “I’m telling Lila. You’ll only pray it was Tucker harassing you.”

Our first appointment at the VA clinic is with Dr. Walters, the orthopedic surgeon who will review Mark’s studies and determine if he meets surgical criteria. He’s tall and thin, with sparse hair and dark eyes. He peruses Mark’s records before turning his attention to his residual limb. He runs his hands all over it, pressing, inspecting the end. He asks about sensitivity, pain, and range of motion. Finally, he slides his rolling chair back to the desk and takes off his glasses.

“I agree with Dr. Paxton’s assessment. I think you’re an ideal candidate. You’re young, so your bones are solid and strong, and you’ll have much better proprioception with an integrated limb as opposed to a socket prosthetic.”

Mark’s eyebrows pull together, and Dr. Walters smiles. “Sorry. I get used to writing in medical terminology and it just slips out. My wife says that’s why I’m no fun at cocktail parties. Proprioception is the ability to sense vibrations from the ground in your natural bone. A socket prosthetic slips on over your residual limb, but there’s no physical connection to your body. Because your implant will be grafted to your bone, as you walk, you’ll be able to sense differences in terrain. It won’t be as sensitive as your intact limb, but you’ll still feel it and be able to adapt to changes in walking surfaces. It gives you a more natural gait because you’re able to transfer all of your weight to the integrated prosthetic as you move.”

Mark nods. He’s read more about this than I have.

“The surgery is fairly straightforward,” he continues, reaching for a lower limb model on his desk. The limb ends just below the knee and has a metal tip protruding from it. He tugs the metal tip, and the titanium rod pops free from the model. “Yours won’t do that,” he chuckles. “This is for demonstration purposes. This model has less bone remaining than you do, so your residual limb will be longer than this. I’ll make an incision across the tip of your lower leg to expose the bone. Then I’ll drill out the center of your bone to make room to implant the rod.” He passes the rod to Mark. “You’ll notice the rod’s surface is grooved and porous. That allows it to fully fuse with your bone in about three months. By that time, you’ll be walking on your own with your integrated implant and no crutches.”

Mark’s face lights up at those words. Disappointment washes over me at his reaction. He’s counting on the implant to conceal his altered body, rather than accepting himself as he is.

Not that I have a lot of room to talk.

Dr. Walters takes the rod from Mark and returns it to the model before reaching for a skeleton on a rolling pole. The skeleton is wearing a fishing hat, complete with colorful lures, and a nametag that says, “Hi! My name is Bob!” is plastered to his sternum.

“Now, your tibia bone ends right about here.” He indicates the area on Bob’s bony form. “The implant will be inserted to about here. I’ll know for sure after we take a look at your CT and X-rays.” He rolls Bob back into the corner. “During surgery, a plastic surgeon and a neurosurgeon will refine the end of your limb. Do you have phantom sensations?”

Mark nods. “Not as much as I used to, but I still have them.”

“While we adjust your limb to accommodate the rod, we can refine your nerve endings and remove scar tissue. That may help relieve them.”

He asks if we have questions, and when we don’t, he sends us back to the waiting room with a lengthy list of tests and consultations. Mark has bilateral leg X-rays to check bone density and ensure the prosthetic and rod are designed to fit the height and shape of his body, followed by a CT scan to get a closer look at the internal structures and their precise measurements. Blood is drawn to make sure he’s healthy enough for surgery. He meets with a psychiatrist to evaluate whether he’s emotionally prepared for the procedure. He’s even scheduled to consult with a prosthetic specialist to review his options and decide what model suits his needs.

It’s an all-day affair. The prosthetist is his last appointment, and he shows us into his treatment room. It’s very similar to the rehab gyms Mark is familiar with. It has parallel bars, wooden stairs, bright orange cones, and a ladder in one corner for agility training.

“I’m Chris,” he says, holding out his hand. “I understand you’re here for an integrated right lower extremity implant. I’m here to help you decide on all the bells and whistles. Let’s talk about what you want.”

I’ve spent years around veterans with amputations and artificial limbs, but even my head is swimming at all the available choices. Once you get into the more modern prosthetics, the options are limitless. Robotics. Bionics. Hydraulics. Carbon-fiber. Waterproof. Bladed feet. Foot-shaped feet. Colors. Patterns. Skins, with and without tattoos. It’s overwhelming, but Chris narrows the options to fit Mark’s desired lifestyle and activities.

Mark finally chooses a carbon-fiber leg with a hydraulic ankle for everyday use, and a Caucasian-skinned shower leg with a non-slip sole.

“I’m this close to being normal again,” he says excitedly as we exit the building, holding his fingers barely an inch apart.

I stop walking. “Mark, you are normal.”

He frowns. “You know what I mean. I won’t have to look like this.” He gestures down at the end of his residual limb peeking out from the bottom of his shorts.

“You know what? I like you like this. You’re you. You’re real. And you’re perfect just the way you are.”

He makes a face and turns toward the car. After a moment, I follow him, climbing in.

Since we have to see Dr. Walters again tomorrow morning, we’ve opted to stay in Pueblo overnight rather than drive home and back again. Our drive to the hotel is silent.

When we pull into the hotel parking lot, he reaches for my hand. “I’m sorry. I know you meant what you said. I love that you see me for me. It’s just – I’m not there yet. To me, my leg is a reminder of everything I’ve lost.” He swallows hard and his jaw clenches.

I reach out and stroke his face. He closes his eyes, pushing his face into my palm. I wait for him to open his eyes and look at me.

“Do you remember the night I showed Blake my scars?”

His pale blue eyes flare instantly at the reminder of the asshole I went out with a handful of times. “I remember beating his ass,” he growls, and I smile.

“I was talking about what you said when we were in the dining room. Lila told me to stop defining myself by my scars. You said even though they were a part of me, they don’t define me, that they were proof of my strength.” I study his face. “Did you mean it?”

“Of course I did.”

“Then listen to your own words.” I push my hand against his chest, right over his heart. “You’re not defined by what you’ve lost, Mark. You’re defined by who you are.”

He pulls me to him, kissing me tenderly, deeply, before resting his forehead against mine. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

“For what?”

“For being you. For being my person. For keeping me grounded. For all of it.” He kisses me again, and when we finally enter the hotel lobby, my car windows are steamy.

Even though it’s only four p.m. when we check in, we’re both starving. The pancakes from seven o’clock this morning have long since disappeared, so we opt for an early dinner. We stop by a wine shop and pick up a couple of bottles before choosing a steakhouse. The steak and salads are good; their house cabernet is better.

We return to the hotel, where we open another bottle of wine and drink it from clear plastic cups in our room. I need Charlie relaxed for what I have planned for this evening. She’s on the menu, and I plan to devour every inch of her body until she's trembling and screaming my name.

We meet in the shower as usual, both of us in our underwear. However, even though this is a disabled-accessible room, the shower bench’s sturdiness is sketchy at best. We relocate to the bedroom, our damp bodies briefly chilled by the air conditioner.

“Do you trust me?” I murmur against her lips.

“Always.”

“Then take off your wet underwear. I’m going to do the same. I want to kiss you all over.”

“Sex?” she whispers, though she doesn’t sound alarmed.

“No. I just need to taste you. We’ll ignore him.”

She smiles. “Your entity?”

I nod, kissing her firmly. She reaches for her underwear, but I catch her hand. “Wait. Turn down the bed.” When she does, I shuck my briefs and sit, tugging the sheet over my hard-on before leaning my crutches against the wall. “May I?” I ask, my hand grazing her lacy boyshorts.

She bites her lower lip and nods.

It’s like opening a Christmas gift I’ve waited twenty-five years for.

I slip my hands inside the waistband at the back to cup her perfect ass, pulling her forward. I dip my head, nuzzling the apex of her thighs through her panties, and she gasps. I rub my soft whiskers up her inner thighs until she gasps again.

Mine.

The thought appears out of nowhere. I ignore it. I have more important things to do.

I move my hands to the sides of her panties, slowly peeling them down her toned legs. I pat the mattress behind me. “Come here, Baby Girl.”

She climbs into the bed faster than I expected, but she sits with her arms around her knees, hiding her body.

She’s nervous.

“I promise you, Baby Girl, even if you beg, my entity won’t misbehave.”

“It’s not that. I trust you. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

She sighs before meeting my gaze. “I know it’s hypocritical after what I said earlier, but letting you see my scars up close is… well, scary.”

I shift toward her, careful to keep my “entity” covered by the sheet while I consider her concerns. “Well, we have three options. You could blindfold me. We can turn the lights really low. Or we can challenge your fears.”

“Challenge them how?”

I love how she immediately zeroes in on the choice that takes the most courage. My Baby Girl is strong. She always has been.

I study her face. “You let me pay individual attention to each and every one of your scars. Kissing. Licking. Touching. I’ll taste every single inch of you tonight, scarred or otherwise. I’ll make tonight better for you than it’s ever been in your entire life.”

Her eyes widen.

“It’s just me, Baby Girl. If it’s too much, all you have to do is tell me. We can stop now if you want, just lie down and go to sleep. I’ll never do anything you don’t want me to.”

Charlie takes a deep breath before rising up on her knees. Her bare breasts press into my chest as she kisses me. “Okay. Let’s challenge them,” she says breathlessly.

That’s my girl.

I remember Tucker’s advice about having a safe word, especially for situations Charlie might find challenging. This certainly fits that criteria. “I want you to pick a safe word, Charlie. Something you can say to let me know you’re getting overwhelmed, and I’ll stop immediately.”

She frowns. “Like a BDSM thing?”

Charlie’s endured enough bondage and sadism for a dozen lifetimes, and I don’t want that association anywhere near our bed. “No. It was one of Tucker’s suggestions. It’s something he and Lila started when they were dealing with her flashbacks. Willow recommended it.”

“Okay,” she says, followed by, “What word should I pick?”

I grin. “Something easy to remember that doesn’t have any sexual connotations.”

She purses her lips. “Daffodil,” she says firmly. “My favorite flower.”

They were her mother’s favorite flower, too, but I don’t mention that since we’re both naked and I'd rather neither of us were thinking about her mom right now. “Okay. Daffodil it is. If things get too intense, say your word, and everything stops. Alright?”

When she nods, I smile slowly. “Lie down on the bed on your back.”

She moves to the center of the bed, lying down. When she’s settled, I crawl toward her, careful to keep the thin sheet between my cock and her bare flesh. I pause to admire the view. Her golden-brown hair fans out around her. Full breasts await my touch, her nipples already pearled. Her hips are perfectly curved to fit my grip while I bury my cock deep inside her. I feel like a man in the desert staring at a bottle of ice-cold water. I need Charlie like I need air.

“So fucking beautiful,” I murmur.

She tilts her head, an odd look on her face.

“What?”

Her voice sounds confused. “You really mean that, don’t you? You’re not just saying it.”

“Of course I mean it.”

“I’ve never watched your face when you’ve said it. You’re being sincere.”

She seems surprised by this revelation, surprised I would find her beautiful. I lean on my elbow, hovering above her to stroke her soft cheek, waiting for her to look into my eyes. “Yes, Baby Girl. I mean it from the bottom of my heart. You’re so beautiful, you take my breath away.”

Small hands curl around the back of my neck, pulling me down, and my lips meet hers in tender kisses. My tongue traces the seam of her lips, and she immediately parts for me. I angle my head to kiss her more deeply, exploring every part of her mouth. She’s sweet like honey, and I can’t get enough. She touches me, running her fingers through my soft stubble, holding my face to hers, sighing softly as our lips mold together again and again.

Eventually, I sigh and pull away. “Don’t leave,” she complains, and I smile.

“I’m not going far.” I slide down the bed, pausing mid-thigh. “I promised to taste every square inch of you. I think I’ll start right here.” I nudge her legs apart, settling myself between them. I lift her left leg up, hooking it over my shoulder, and she sucks in a deep breath as my mouth closes on her thigh.

“Tasting me – all over – won’t take long – if you start there.” Her words come in sharp bursts as I nibble and lick her inner thigh. I stop, rubbing my whiskers against her soft skin, feeling her arch toward me.

“You misunderstand. It’s a round trip. I start here –” I lift her right leg up as well, nipping at her thigh, “ – and move down to your toes and up your back. Then I work my way down from the top of your shoulders and finish here.” I reach up to stroke her damp flesh with my fingers. Her essence coats them, and she groans and chases my fingers with her hips as I pull away.

“All in good time,” I promise. “I’m going to make this perfect for you.”

I take my time and do as promised, licking and tasting, nipping and nibbling, nuzzling and grazing. Inner thighs. Outer thighs. The dimples of her knees. The curve of her calf. The bony part of her ankles. I suck her toes, and she moans. I bite the arch of her foot, and she rocks her hips.

“Turn onto your stomach,” I murmur, and though she hesitates for a second, she complies, moving her hair away from her back without me having to tell her to.

I make the same trip north I just finished on the front of her legs, paying special attention to the hollow behind each knee before nudging her thighs further apart.

Charlie has several scars between her thighs, some of which extend to the back, and I devote extra attention to these, pushing her legs apart, kissing them, tracing each scar with my tongue, all the way to the edge of her folds. She’s restless, fraught with tension as my face moves closer to her glistening pussy without touching her.

This is where I want her. Too focused on her pleasure to give a damn about her scars.

Then I move to her luscious peach of an ass, kissing and nipping, grazing her with my teeth, making her gasp. The scars here begin along the upper third of her perfect buttocks and continues all the way up her back, but I don’t want her thinking about that.

My hand slips between her thighs, tracing the scars my lips just traced, my fingers hovering just outside her reach. She whimpers and arches toward them. I ease one finger into her folds, tracing them. She’s so hot, so wet. She rolls her hips, straining toward my hand, and I let my fingers slowly caress from her clit to her entrance. She moans again.

My mouth returns to her back, tracing her scars with my tongue, kissing, licking, suckling. She arches toward me as I drag my whiskers over the textured flesh, moving closer to the worst of her scars. When I reach the brand below her shoulder blades, I softly kiss all the way across it. Her body stills, even with my fingers stroking between her legs.

She knows exactly where I am. This is the scar she hates most of all.

“My Baby Girl,” I murmur over and over as I rub my soft stubble over it. Then I kiss it again, laving it with my tongue, lavishing as much attention on it as I intend to give her breasts and pussy.

My fingers slowly circle her clit, pulling her attention away from her scars, and she groans, rocking against my hand. I keep working my way up, kissing and tasting, until I reach her neck.

Time to give my Baby Girl some relief.

I nuzzle her neck below her ear, an area that’s particularly sensitive for her, and she gasps and tilts her head to give me better access. I move my fingers faster as she pushes into my hand, adjusting my pressure and speed to match her movements.

I speak low, just beside her ear, letting my hot breath emphasize my slow words. “You’re so wet for me. So fucking hot. Maybe one day soon, it’ll be my cock inside you instead of my fingers.” She moans at that, bucking against my hand. “That’s right. Come for me, Charlie. I want to feel you come for me.”

She cries out, desperate for release, and I work her scorching flesh until I wring her orgasm from her, feeling her spasm around my fingers. I kiss the back of her neck and shoulders while she comes down from her state of euphoria. When I feel her body go limp, I nuzzle her neck. “Turn over, Beautiful. We’re not done yet.”

“I don’t think I can take any more,” she mumbles, but she turns over anyway.

I take my time, kissing her temples, her forehead, the little crease between her eyebrows, the tip of her nose. Every time I get close to her lips, she tries to capture my mouth, but I move just out of reach until she huffs in frustration. I nuzzle her ear, and she shivers. “Something wrong?”

“Kiss me,” she commands.

“I’ve been kissing you.”

“Kiss my mouth.”

I find the sensitive place between her ear and her collarbone, suckling and nuzzling, and she squirms. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“Y-yes.”

I move to the opposite side of her neck and repeat my actions, and she moans and shivers again. “You don’t sound very sure.”

She groans. “Kiss me, Mark, please.”

It’s her “please” that does it, and I return to her mouth, intending to get her fully worked up before I move to the scars on her breasts.

But Charlie has other plans.

I’m holding myself above her on my elbows when she spears her fingers through my hair and kisses me thoroughly, a blend of heat and tongues and moans and need. Her legs wrap around my waist, her ankles hooked together so I couldn’t escape even if I wanted to. The only thing between her beautiful pussy and my rock-hard cock is a thin sheet, now damp from her essence.

That’s when she arches against me, and I suddenly realize I’m about to lose control. Intense pressure is building inside me, and I need a distraction, right fucking now.

I drag my lips from hers and rest my head on hers. “Stop moving for a minute. You’re too fucking hot and I’m on the edge.”

“Mutual pleasure,” she reminds me.

“Not until I’m done with you.”

Her electric green gaze pins me. “Promise me.” When I don’t answer her as quickly as she’d like, she rubs against me again, and my cock throbs in response.

“I promise. Just please, let me do this. Let me show you what I think of your scars.”

She releases me then, unhooking her ankles but leaving her bent legs on either side of my hips. I draw a ragged breath.

And here I’d thought I was the one in control.

I take a second to gather myself before returning to her neck. “You’re driving me crazy,” she groans as I nuzzle and kiss the hollow at the base of her throat and the spot where her neck and collarbone meet. I lift her arms and worship every inch of them, from her tricep to the area inside her elbow to the underside of her wrist where the scars hide beneath her bracelets. I suck her fingers, and she reaches for my hand in response, sucking deeply on my index finger. My eyes close as images of her full lips tight around my cock flood my mind.

Focus.

I work my way back to her chest, and once again, she stills. I pretend not to notice as I run my tongue over the scars on her breasts, lapping at them, suckling and pulling away with soft pops. When I finish with the scars on her right breast, I move to her left, bringing my hand up to continue teasing her right breast while I trace every scar on her left breast with my lips. I graze them with soft whiskers and lick every pale white line. Charlie’s panting and writhing beneath me long before I’m done, her scars forgotten. Only when I’ve traced each scar do I turn my attention to her nipple, closing my mouth over its rosy peak as I work its twin with my fingers. I bite down gently, smiling when she gasps. “So fucking beautiful,” I murmur.

I keep teasing her breasts with my hands as I kiss my way down her flat stomach, grazing her ribs, tracing her surgical scar with my lips, swirling my tongue in and around her navel, gradually working my way lower. I lick and nuzzle each and every scar on her inner thighs, moving closer and closer to my prize.

By the time I reach her satiny pink folds, she’s glistening with need, and I growl deep in my throat at the gorgeous sight. I prop myself on my elbows between her legs, staring at her face. She’s panting, biting her lip, arching toward me.

So. Fucking. Hot.

The first swipe of my tongue laves her from her entrance to her clit, and she cries out. I repeat the movement, lapping up her juices, loving her tangy nectar. Her fists tangle in the bedsheets. I focus my attention on her entrance, licking lightly at first before full-on tongue-fucking her. She gasps unintelligible sounds, pushing her delectable pussy against my face, and I can’t get enough of her. When I replace my tongue with my fingers and curl them inside her to caress her sweet spot, she bucks hard against me.

I bury my face in her, sucking her clit in time with the thrusts of my fingers. Her heels dig into the mattress as her cries grow louder. She’s so close to her climax that I can feel the tension in her inner walls. “Please,” she begs, her fingers in my hair. I give her what she needs, working her damp flesh over with my fingers, lips, and tongue.

Her thighs clamp tight around me as her orgasm hits her like a hurricane. She rides wave after wave of pleasure, crying out my name. I don’t stop until her thighs fall open and her body relaxes. Only then do I crawl up the bed and lie down beside her.

“So fucking beautiful,” I murmur, stroking her hair away from her face.

She turns to me, pulling my face to hers for a slow, deep, lingering kiss. When I draw back, I’m startled to see tears in her eyes. I start to sit up, afraid I’ve hurt her, but she places a finger over my lips. “I’m fine,” she assures me. “Just overwhelmed, that’s all.”

I look at her doubtfully, and she raises up on her elbow to kiss me again. “I promise I’m fine. Better than fine. I’m amazing. No, you’re amazing. You play my body like a musician plays his instrument.” Then she grins. “Speaking of playing with instruments,” she says suggestively, licking her lips. “Your turn.”

I chuckle. “No oral. You’re the only one getting that tonight.”

She rolls her eyes. “You can’t keep making up rules after the fact.”

“Watch me.”

“Fine. Any other rules?”

“Same as before. Pleasuring but no penetration. And…” I hesitate. “My right leg stays covered, at least the lower part.”

She nods, unbothered by my request. “I can kiss you other places, though, right? Just not your ‘entity’?” She makes air quotes with her fingers.

I nod. “Dealer’s choice.”

She looks thoughtful. “I can work with that. Can you follow directions?”

I grin. “I’m a soldier. Of course I can.”

“Then roll onto your back, Soldier. Hands at your sides.”

And just like that, I’m at her mercy. She covers both of my legs with the sheet, tucking it so it rests just above my knees as requested. Then she kneels with her legs on either side of my thighs so that her core is past my cock. She leans down, her perfect ass in the air, sweet as a Georgia peach, pressing her lips to the muscles in my lower abdomen, tracing them with her tongue, kissing her way up my chest. As she moves up, her full breasts graze my skin, burning a path toward me. By the time she reaches my face, I’m already breathing hard.

Charlie shimmies her shoulders, making her breasts dance on my chest, and I groan. “Do you want to touch?”

“God, yes,” I burst out.

“Go ahead.” The words are barely out of her mouth before my hands are cupping her breasts, squeezing, teasing her already peaked nipples.

She leans forward, kissing me aggressively, her tongue swirling over and around mine, biting my lip lightly before drawing it into her mouth. The heat between us builds quickly, and she moans into my mouth as I knead her breasts. She arches closer, and as her abdomen dips down, my cock makes skin to skin contact with her. I suck in a deep breath as the intensity between us immediately rockets to another level.

That’s when she sits back on her heels, still straddling my thighs, my cock at full attention. I watch, unable to tear my gaze from her as she slowly licks her hands. When she takes my cock in her wet hands and caresses my shaft, I groan in pleasure. I revel in her touch, awaiting a handjob from the sexiest woman on the planet.

What I get is so much more.

“Eyes up here,” she instructs me, using one hand to indicate her face and breasts.

Then she begins to bob up and down, her ankles hooked over my thighs to help her move. It looks like she’s riding my cock, using her hands to simulate sliding in and out of her warm, wet pussy.

“Oh, fuck, Charlie,” I groan. “You’re so fucking hot.”

When I feel her damp heat graze my balls as she moves, I nearly come on the spot.

“I need to touch you,” I say, my voice gruff. She nods, and I reach for her, one hand cupping a lush breast, the other sliding between her legs to firmly circle her clit. She moans in response. I feel her body throbbing with desire, but my control is slipping fast as her hands stroke my cock like they were made for it.

When she pauses to reach between her legs, I can only stare, mesmerized. She pulls her fingers out, wet with her arousal, and uses them to lubricate my cock, stroking with each bounce of her body on my thighs, her gorgeous breasts rebounding with each thrust. She throws her head back, moaning as I massage her clit. She cries out my name as she comes again, and that’s when I lose all control, thrusting forcefully into her hands, my eyes fixed on her face. “Mine,” I growl as I climax, exploding all over her chest and abdomen.

I’m breathing as hard as if I’d run ten miles, but I can’t take my eyes off Charlie. Her eyes have that sated look, her chest is flushed from her orgasm, and her lips are swollen from my kisses. Her green eyes stare directly into mine as she rubs her hands over her body, painting her breasts with my seed.

“Yes. Yours.”

Damn right.

After that mindblowing – I don’t even know what to call it – Mark reaches for my hand, dragging me against his chest, not caring the least bit that I'm covered in his semen. “That’s the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever experienced in my whole life.”

I smile. “I was about to say the same thing to you.”

“You’re so fucking hot,” he says for the umpteenth time tonight before capturing my lips in a searing kiss.

I’ve only ever felt this way with him.

We shower together again before spooning naked in each other’s arms for the first time.

I wake before him to find his erection nestled against my ass. Just thinking about it makes me wet. When I hear him stir behind me, I slip my hand between our bodies and stroke him. I hear his sharp intake of breath just before his hands reach around and cup my breasts. His mouth nuzzles the hollow beneath my ear.

I want to feel him as close as he can be without penetration.

I shift my body and guide him between my folds, arching back against him. I gasp at the feel of him. Mark groans, his hand moving to my hip. Wetness surrounds him as he glides against me, sliding past my entrance to my already swollen clit.

“God, you feel good.” His voice is ragged.

I arch back against him in response. “More,” I beg, and he raises up on one elbow, moving faster, his erection massaging my clit with each firm stroke. He thrusts purposefully, his breathing harsh against the side of my neck, his hot breath driving me wild.

“Fuck,” he groans, dropping his head to my shoulder. “I’m already close.”

“Oh, God.” My whimper becomes one long moan as he picks up speed. I’m on the precipice, my orgasm just beyond my reach. “Please.”

His mouth pauses at my ear. “Come for me, Charlie. I want to feel you come against me. Let me feel it.” His rumbled words, his breath on my neck, his thick cock sliding against my clit, all combine to propel me over the edge, and I climax hard, crying out, my contractions squeezing his shaft. Mark follows immediately, sinking his teeth into my collarbone as his body shudders and spasms against me.

Afterwards, I’m sure. Next time, I want him inside me.

I’m ready.

I’m out in the barn, feeding my goats, when the door opens and Tucker’s brother, Shepherd, comes in.

“Sorry I’m late,” he mumbles. “I overslept.”

I shrug. “Late night?” I’d never say it, but Shepherd looks rough this morning. His hair sticks up like he threw on a hat with wet hair, and he has deep circles under his eyes. He’s got at least three days’ worth of dark stubble, and that’s not like him. He may spend his days working in the barn and riding horses, but his grooming is always immaculate.

Shepherd looks nothing like the rest of the Maxwell boys. They all look like their mom, with light brown hair that turns to unruly waves if it gets too long and dark blue eyes framed by lashes I’d kill for. Tucker, Joey, and Ethan are solidly built, with broad shoulders and chests. Marie, their mom, says Shepherd looks like his paternal grandfather. He’s as tall as Tucker, but his build is long and lean, his hair and eyes dark brown. They have opposite personalities, too. Where Tucker and his other brothers are outgoing and gregarious, Shepherd prefers to keep to himself.

“Something like that,” he mutters.

I try again. “Hot date?”

He reaches for Carol Alt’s halter. “You know it.”

He silently leads my matriarch out to the pasture, and all the others trail behind her. Goats are often matriarchal in herds, and Carol Alt is the queen of this one. All my girls are named after supermodels, including (but not limited to) Cindy Crawford, Kate Moss, Heidi Klum, and Chele. It was only after working with Tom for a couple of years that he disclosed that Chele was, in fact, his ex-wife and Maya’s mom. I don’t think he knows I have a goat named after her. Funnily enough, she’s my most hard-to-please, finicky goat, traits she apparently shares with her namesake.

I help Shepherd lead the horses out. I have four mares: India, a gorgeous black Morgan; Aruba, a beautiful white Orlov Trotter; and Paris and Madrid, a pair of striking chestnut thoroughbreds. Paris has a white star on her forehead, and Madrid has a white stripe down her face. All my horses are show or racing rescues. When horses can’t perform to the standards the equine world demands, many are put down. I can’t rescue all of them, but I can do my part.

Shepherd’s land butts up to ours on the opposite side of our barn and pastures. When Tucker and I bought our land, we purchased a huge plot with a pair of barns, four pastures, a cabin, and a house. We realized afterwards it was much more than we needed, even taking our animals into account. Shepherd was looking to buy property that would eventually accommodate horses, so we sold half our land to him, including one of the barns and the cabin. We then hired him to run our farm. It works out well. Shepherd prefers solitude, and working with horses fits his personality. Besides, he’s a nature photographer, so his hours can flex to accommodate his needs, and he can ride the horses up the mountain trails to capture truly spectacular images. All the canvas prints of nature photographs hanging in our clinic were from photos Shepherd took, and they’re absolutely stunning. He truly has a gift.

“We’re grilling tomorrow night. Want to come over for dinner?” I offer as we lock the fence behind the last horse.

He shakes his head, the same way he always does. “Thanks, but I’ve got plans already.”

I don’t get it. He always declines. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t dislike me. Otherwise, he’d never have bought the land behind us and decided to spend his days running into me on a regular basis.

Then again, maybe I’m just too stubborn to take a hint.

“If you change your mind, we’re doing ribs with all the sides. You can bring your friend.”

He looks puzzled. “My friend?”

“The one you have plans with.”

When his expression freezes, it hits me. Shepherd doesn’t actually have plans with someone else. He just doesn’t want to come over. And since he stops by to see Tucker at the gym three or four days a week, maybe the problem really is me.

I step backwards, averting my eyes. “I’m late. I’ve got to go shower before work. See you later, Shepherd.”

“Lila, wait,” he calls, but I turn and almost run to the house in my haste to get away.

I’m not sure how much of it is embarrassment, how much is hurt feelings, and how much is from the damn hormone shots, but by the time I step inside my foyer, I’m in tears.

It’s the shots.

I’m not a crier.

It’s definitely the shots.

I just hope all this crying means they’re actually working.