Page 40 of Endless Depths

He sniffs. “Alright, where was I?” He squirts body wash onto a fresh rag, but I stop him.

“Use your hands.” I crave physical connection, and I think he needs it too because his tears were from more than gratitude.

Bringing me home after he thought he’d have to bury me must be overwhelming. Plus, if the roles were reversed, and I had to watch Morgan suffer, I’d want to punch a wall or something just so he wouldn’t have to suffer alone. My poor husband has been through hell.

He lathers his hands in body wash, and roams them down my neck, and chest. His touch turns tender over the three ribs I broke, before trailing down my abs, and over my surgical incisions, but he stops before he reaches my cock.

Maybe this was a bad idea. What if my scar-ravaged body is a grim reminder? What if he changes his mind and decides he wants to be with a man who isn’t broken, who he can fuck hard without worrying about hurting?

Any concerns I have dissipate when his gaze sweeps up my body with open hunger. He kneels before me, and wraps his hand around my calf to stabilize my foot. Even when he’s on his knees, massaging my calves and feet, he’s in control.

It’s what I need right now. It’s what I’ve always needed. He’s the anchor tethering me to safety, the island I hide behind, shielding me from a storm. He’s theBriarfaithfully keeping me afloat, even as I’m tossed about in the relentless ocean.

My blood heats as he slides his hands up the inside of my thighs with a firm touch that roots me and soothes my tension. His pressure lifts when he reaches the angry red surgical line wrapping around my hip. The unwelcome reminder of my injuries threatens to spoil my lust. Morgan must sense it because he abandons the clinical efficiency he used in the hospital, and massages the creases where my thighs meet my groin, thumbs trailing toward my hole.

I was already half-hard, but my cock fills to full mast as he rakes soapy fingers through the hair around the base of my cock, then gently washes my balls, tantalizing me with his touch. I exhale a huff of frustration.

“Don’t worry. I’ll give you what you need,” Morgan murmurs sinfully, and finally palms my cock.

“Fuck,” I gasp, shivering as he strokes me. “That feels so good.”

Sea glass irises frame pupils dilated wide as he catalogs every expression he draws from me. His dark hair, nearly black now that it’s wet, hangs over his forehead, and water droplets drip from his parted lips. He keeps stroking me as he massages around my groin, cutting my pain with pleasure, soothing tight muscles, before moving to my glutes. I grip the rails of the shower chair, stifling pained gasps as he repositions me enough to clean between my cheeks.

When his soapy finger grazes my hole, my cock jolts, and I gasp. “It doesn’t hurt,” I rush to say. “Keep going.”

He nods, then licks my cock from root to tip, applying gentle pressure to my hole.

“Fuck,” I hiss.

He darts a glance back up and must see bliss because the finger against my hole starts to move, tracing lazy circles around my rim, toying with me. He sucks me into his mouth, but I want more. I want him to push his finger inside me and massage my prostate until I come.

But I don’t even know if that’s possible. At the hospital, I was subjected to uncomfortable and demoralizing rectal exams and internal pelvic therapy. I don’t even know if I can orgasm.

I clench my teeth and will my attention away from the past to the erotic vision of his head bobbing, and the muscles in his back flexing.

He swallows against my cock notched in the back of his throat. Pleasure coils down my length. I’m so close. My musclestense, but that ratchets my pain higher. I try to push through it, but my erection flags. I knew it wouldn’t work.

“I don’t think I can get off.”

“Pain?” He lowers my cock to rest against my thigh with such reverence and care that I want to cry.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

“I’m broken.” I look away sullenly. I don’t know how to explain the shame I feel, the rage and self-loathing, the urge to claw my skin off to escape this frustrating prison of a body.

He rises onto his knees and cradles the back of my head with both hands. “Sweetheart, it’s been a month since you got hurt. You’re not broken. You just have more healing to do.” He kisses my forehead, and pulls back.

“But what if I can’t come? What if I can’t bottom anymore? What if I can’t please you?”

He shakes his head to clear it like I overwhelmed him with all my insecurities.

“Sorry,” I repeat.

“Stop apologizing and listen.”

His commanding tone arrests me. I press my lips together and nod.