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I moaned and dropped my forehead to the arm of the sofa again, closing my eyes. I was so close I wanted to scream at him. I was used to having control. You don’t know how to do it. What you have to do is—
And then I was coming, the orgasm wrenching through me, making me cry out. He rode me through it, dropping his hand from my clit and going faster, harder, until he stilled and came, groaning deeply into my hair. I took a deep breath and realized that I had never had sex that felt this good in my life. Not ever.
That was how I met Max Reilly.
Chapter 4
Max
I’d spent hundreds of hours in doctors’ offices—the medicals for the Marines, the emergency surgeries, the endless work on my leg. That wasn’t even counting the shrinks’ offices I’d been to. I’d never been in a single one that was comfortable.
I sat on an exam table in my boxer shorts, my legs dangling over the side, my leg off, my hands braced on the table. My doctor, a gray-haired woman well over sixty named Helen, was making notes on her clipboard.
“Can I put my clothes on now?” I asked her.
“In a second,” she said without looking up. “Everything looks pretty good. How’s the leg?”
I didn’t look down at it; I knew what it looked like. My leg was gone just below the knee, part of my shin and my foot vaporized by an IED in Afghanistan four years ago. Now I wore a prosthetic, a metallic thing with tendons and a foot, like something the Terminator would walk on. “It’s great,” I said. “Fucking fantastic.”
She didn’t bat an eye at my tone. Helen was used to me. After our first argument when I’d started coming to her two years ago, she’d told me to call her by her first name. “Any pain?” she asked.
I shrugged, my shoulders tight. Shit, it was cold in here. “A little.”
She glanced up at me. “You want something for it?”
I shook my head. “No meds.”
“Okay, fine. Are you doing the stretching exercises?”
“Yes.” I did them at the gym every day.
She looked at my leg again. “You’ve been taking care of it. The skin doesn’t look irritated. The scars look good.”
“No, they don’t,” I countered. “They look like my leg was blown off.”
“Well, aren’t you in a grumpy mood today?” she said, my shit mood bouncing off her. “Something sure crawled up your butt. When was the last time you saw your counselor?”
I looked up at the ceiling. The fact that she never took any of my shit was the reason I still saw Helen. That, and she was one of the few people I actually talked to. “I’ll probably start going again.”
Her lips flattened into a disapproving line. “You stopped?”
“I ran out of money.”
She paused. “But now you haven’t run out anymore.”
“No.” I thought of the five million dollars in my bank account. No, I was no longer broke. I just felt like I was.
“So you’re going to make an appointment with Dr. Weldman,” she said, pressing me. “Right?”
I sighed. “Right.”
“Today? I can pick up the phone right now.”
“I can do it.” I looked at her face. “I will do it.”
“Thank you. You can put your clothes on now. Is there anything else?”
I grabbed my t-shirt and pulled it over my head. “There’s one thing.”
