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“What’s wrong?”
He dropped his hand. “Hm?”
“You sounded funny when you said that. ‘I’m good.’”
“I don’t know. I, uh… I don’t want you to think I’m struggling with any of this. The PTSD, Bianca, my leg. I’m good.”
“You don’t have to convince me, but it would be okay if you weren’t.”
He found her eyes even in the ever-darkening sky. “I was depressed for a while and had a couple of bad months, but I’m in a good place now. I’m not some kicked puppy who needs to be coddled.”
“Nobody thinks that.”
He let out a skeptical grunt. “Sure they do. With their sad eyes. They act like I can’t do anything for myself. Or they don’t say anything at all, which is sometimes worse because I know they’ll talk about me later.” He let out a derisive sniff. “I’m a sad story people tell.”
Sam crawled into his lap, taking his head between both of her hands, her palms against his tense jaw. “Hey, hey. Look at me.”
It was a long couple of seconds before he picked his head up, and her heart broke for him. Although she knew he wouldn’t want to hear that.
“You are not a sad story.” She stroked his eyebrows with her thumbs, smoothing out the lines between his eyes, then moved down to his mouth. She traced his top then lower lip, slightly reddened from the wine that he pretended to like for her sake.
If only he could see himself the way she saw him. Strong, patient, and selfless.
“We all have scars,” she said, closing the space between them. “Some are just more visible than others.” Then she softly pressed her lips to his.
A few seconds passed where he let her be gentle with him, but eventually, he wrapped his arms around her waist, forcing her right up against him, and all the sadness she had been feeling vanished, replaced by the contours of his chest against her breasts and his thighs under her legs. He was so big he engulfed her, once again taking control of their kisses, their bodies like magnets, their mouths the meeting point. Even when she broke away to let her hands roam over him or when he trailed kisses down to her throat, they always came back to their lips and tongues and whispered pleas.
With his hands holding her waist, he pushed her hips forward to meet his, urging his hard length against her with every roll, and she dragged her fingers through his hair, tugging at the roots.
“More?” he rasped.
“Always.”
With a low growl, he rolled her to her back as he hovered over her on his side. The grass was cool beneath her, some patches still slightly wet from the morning rain, and she knew her white skirt would have green stains on it, but with Mike’s muscled body over her, she didn’t care. She pawed at his shirt, lifting it up enough to find the warm skin of his back, and dragged her hands up and down his spine. She wished she’d paid attention in biology class so she could properly name and worship each of the muscles there.
He nipped at her jaw then soothed it with his tongue. This man was everything, gentle and hard, sweet and domineering. When his touch became too much, his fingers just this side of bruising on her hip, he loosened his grip and stroked up her side to her rib cage, teasing the skin under her bra which had been revealed when her shirt somehow inched up.
“What do you like?” she asked, dipping her fingers inside the waistband of his jeans to skim over the elastic of his underwear. “What turns you on?”
“You turn me on.”
“What exactly?” She nudged him until he was on his back, and when he attempted to pull her on top of him, she held on to his wrists. “I’m going to undo your pants, okay?”
He murmured a soft agreement, she unbuttoned his jeans, and together they shimmied them down his thighs, revealing the top of the liner of his prosthesis.
“This is okay?”
“I’m not made of glass,” he said, his voice snapping through the quiet. “Touch me, Samantha.”
That was all the direction she needed. Pulling his boxer briefs down, she took him in hand. “How do you like it?” She put one hand on his thigh as she licked up his length, and his muscles shuddered underneath her palm. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want you. Whatever you do is—”
She cut him off when she licked over the soft head of his dick before taking him in her mouth as far as she could. He combed his fingers into her hair until he hit the elastic. With a quick motion, he pulled it out and dragged his hands through her hair over and over, caressing and authoritative, showing her the depth and speed that he wanted. “Like that. Fuck, peaches, just like that.”
Sam had never liked pet names, but she liked him calling her that in his hoarse voice as he wrapped her hair around his hand.
“Jesus,” he hissed. “Sam, I’m— Your mouth is amazing. I’m gonna come.”
