Page 39 of Endless Depths

I nod.

“Need anything else?”

I shake my head.

He frowns. “You can talk to me.”

“I know.” I force a smile.

His troubled gaze remains, but he doesn’t press me. He pulls my phone out of his pocket and hands it to me, a simple nonverbal reminder to text him when I’m done instead of bellowing for him, another way he’s thoughtfully safeguarded my dignity.

“I’ll leave you to it.” He closes the door.

A weight lifts from my shoulders. I’m alone for the first time since Seb died. Even when Morgan left the hospital to run errands or spend time with Finn, I was still surrounded by people. I don’t have to hide how unhappy I am, how weak I feel, how much I wish I’d died instead of Seb.

It takes a few minutes to start a stream of urine. Everything is connected to my broken pelvis in one way or another, so even peeing hurts. Zarah, my pelvic physical therapist, promises it will get better with time, but it’s frustrating, regardless.

This part of my body that’s only ever given me sexual gratification doesn’t feel or work the way it’s supposed to. I don’t know if I’ll be able to bottom for Morgan again without it hurting, which makes me feel even more like a burden.

I flush the toilet, and text Morgan, who knocks on the door, and waits for me to answer before entering.

“Can I take a shower?” I clear my throat. “With you, I mean.”

He blinks. “Yeah, of course.”

While the shower heats up, he pulls a small space heater out from under the sink and plugs it in.

“You spoil me,” I say.

“If you think turning on a space heater in winter is spoiling, I need to step up my game.”

I roll my eyes, and take off my shirt while he undresses. Obviously, at the hospital he kept most of his clothes on, so when he picks me up again, it’s the most skin-on-skin contact we’ve had since I got injured. I melt against him, resting my cheek on the dark hair on his chest. Tears sting my eyes. I missed him so much.

He lowers me onto the shower chair, and switches to the handheld attachment to rinse my body.

“Mm,” I hum.

His shoulders relax, no longer cinched by his ears, but the wrinkle between his eyebrows and the tension in his jaw still lingers.

“You’re not hurting me,” I reassure him.

He exhales, then nods. “Good.” He arcs over me, and shampoos my hair, scrubbing my scalp decadently and conveniently positioning his cock in front of me.

I can’t help but take him in hand.

A shudder rumbles through him. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

It’s probably the worst hand job I’ve ever given him, but he doesn’t seem to care. He braces himself on the back of the chair and buries his face in my neck, whimpering as I increase my speed. It only takes a few minutes more for him to whisper that he’s close, and a few seconds later he trembles, then moans my name softly as he spills over my hand.

He wraps his arms around me, and I stroke his hair as he recovers. When his shoulders shake, I realize he’s crying.

“There’s no way you’re crying because of how incredible my performance was.”

He laughs and lifts his head. “You were perfect. I’m just so grateful you’re still here, and I have this second chance with you.”

“Me too,” I agree, but it comes out like an obligatory platitude.