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He looks at me standing before him. He runs a large hand over my petite shoulders, my tiny tits. I suck in a breath when the pad of his thumb rubs over my pebbled nipples.
He watches his fingers as they trail down my belly and around one hip bone.
His voice might as well be crawling over gravel. “I want you.”
I spread my legs, being greedy and encouraging him, but he doesn’t move to touch me there. He watches his hands.
The ragged exhale he releases is almost drowned out by the multiple showerheads and jets. He breaks eye contact, flips off the huge rain head, and stares at the ceiling.
“I want everything about you.” He lifts his shirt over his head and holds my eyes, offering me the entirety of his pride on a silver platter.
“All of you.” He pushes his athletic shorts down to his ankles and stands before me.
Wounded.
Broken.
Mutilated.
Red scars run across his legs, his torso, around and over his hips and back. Angry puckers trail up his chest and neck and dip into his beard.
He’s considerably thinner than he used to be, and his large, limp cock hangs on full display.
“Here I am, Olivia. Naked. Literally and figuratively… as well as emotionally. I’m telling you everything in me wants everything about you. I’m a broken man. But I’m yours. If you’ll have me.”
I rush him, wrapping him in a hug, sobbing into his chest. I kiss him there as I cry for his pain, for his loss, and for who we’ll have to be to overcome this.
He folds onto the floor, and we both hold each other. When my tears have run dry and the water has run cold, I pull back to look into his face.
“That’s the last of my tears over this. The last of my sadness. The Layton I know has a will of steel and a mind to overcome. His body is strong, and his desire is stronger. Today we wallowed. Tomorrow we work.”
He lifts a pinky. “Promise?”
I hook mine around his. “Promise.”
* * *
Within three weeks, the whole world changes, or at least, my world changes.
The bruise on my cheek has healed, at least to the outside world. It swells a bit with exertion or if I work on yoga movements that have me inverted for too long. I never asked how long I could expect it to be on display. I’ve treated it like a bruise. I have to remember there was a fracture there.
Exertionis a stretch. I can’t do much with my healing leg.
Daily since that first day at Layton’s house by the lake, we rise, have breakfast with Pop, and make the drive to the house. Some mornings, this is with a Ranger as a chauffeur. On other days, it’s a ride-share.
Each morning, I stretch Layton. We walk through a full round of PT exercises. Where it makes sense and where it will not hurt any therapeutic progress, Layton has incorporated weights.
After lunch, we do yoga. He grumbles and complains. I remind him his body is only one-third when the practice is mind, body, and soul. He grouses loudly anytime I tell him that the physical part is just that… a part.
He hasn’t yet recognized that he doesn’t grimace when using the porch stairs at the ranch or to get in and out of the pool. He doesn’t seem to notice his limp is less pronounced.
The physical pain is persistent. But it seems the severity is less than when we began.
After yoga, we spend time in the pool. We work.
And we play.
He seems to know when we’re doing therapy. Those times, his focus is engaged, his responses are specific, and he does each rep, each movement, precisely and completely.
