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“You’re a fighter,” she says, cupping my face. “Someone who's been through some hell and came out the other side, not unscathed but certainly not broken. Whatever scars you bear, I bear them, too, even if some are visible and some aren’t. The important thing is that we fully embrace the life we have now, not the one we had before.”
Before I can reply, she untangles herself from my embrace and strips the duvet down to the bottom of the bed. Her eyes run over every inch of me, including the several inches hardening between my thighs only for her.
She trails her hands over my shoulders, chest, abs, and down my thighs. Her eyes contain only tenderness and pride as she looks at my leg, focusing on what’s there rather than what’s missing.
Bending, she trails her lips down my left thigh and over my knee before placing gentle kisses where the leg ends. Her actions tell me more than words of her acceptance and … love.
Grace loves me.
It blazes in her eyes as she straddles my thighs and smiles at me. It burns a fiery path into my bloodstream as she positions my hard cock at her entrance and sinks down on me. And as she takes me deep inside her body, it brands my heart forever hers.
* * *
It’sthe early hours of the morning. Grace’s chest heaves, and a sheen of sweat covers her body despite the chill. She’s spent, all soft and womanly and utterly beautiful.
Her hot breath comes in pants against my chest as I tuck her close. Between us, our thighs are slick with our cum.I groan out a harsh breath, my throat raw and scratchy from my shouts as we made love. I came so fucking hard that last time, I thought I was gonna blackout.
“Sleep, sweetheart,” I murmur into her hair.
Her eyes are closed before the last word leaves my lips. Even as she sleeps, her fingers grip my chest as if afraid to let me go. My heart clenches. I’ve never known peace like I do at this moment. It settles around my shoulders like a warm blanket, loosening almost a decade of tension in my chest. It envelops us, and the rest of the world melts away until all I see is her face.
I know what this feeling is, even though I’ve never experienced it before. I know what she’s pulled from the dark depths of my mind and heart.
I brush my lips against her forehead, inhaling her scent deeply and memorising it before giving in to sleep.
ChapterEleven
Grace
I’m alonewhen I wake. Stretching, I note the delicious ache of my muscles from everything Fletcher and I did last night. It was amazing. Incredible. All the adjectives.
I catch sight of the note on the pillow next to me.
Fridge is empty. Gone to get breakfast. Back soon.
I smile and stretch again, missing him already. I head for the en suite bathroom, planning to shower while waiting for him to return. He’s a neat freak like me, with the toothpaste, razors, and deodorant neatly placed on the glass shelf over the mirror.
Then my eyes fall on the crutches leaning against the wall and the chair in the corner with a socket liner draped over the back—a stark reminder of the adaptations Fletch has had to make.
I pull out a drawer, looking for a clean towel, only to find prescription bottles, skin care creams, and prosthetic socks and sleeves. I press a hand over my mouth and sink onto the edge of the bath.
How does something so tragic happen to a man as good as Fletcher? Losing his limb changed the course of his life. If not for the IED, he would still be in the Army. He wouldn’t have joined the London Ambulance Service, and we would never have met. It’s a sobering thought.
Grabbing the towel I used last night from the main bathroom. I quickly shower, remembering Fletch’s big hands on my body and wishing he were with me. Once I’m done, I step back into the bedroom, inhaling the intoxicating mix of Fletch’s detergent, aftershave, and something addictive that’s all him.
After drying off, I pull on the T-shirt and jogging bottoms he loaned me last night, going commando because the crazy man stole my knickers. The memory makes me hot all over. I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of him now that I know the pleasure we can give each other.
Looking around the bedroom, I take in my surroundings now that it’s light. Like me, Fletcher’s space is sparse, with only a wardrobe, chest of drawers, bedside tables, and bed.
A framed photo catches my eye, and I move forward, plucking it from the top of the chest of drawers. Two soldiers stand on dusty ground with mountains in the distance behind them. The men wear helmets and body armour, holding their rifles as they pose for the picture. Fletch is instantly recognisable on the right. The guy next to him is as tall and broad as Fletch, with dark hair and blue eyes. His grin can only be described as cheeky and full of mischief.
Joel.
This photo was taken before the IED that took Joel’s life and changed Fletcher’s forever.
Sadness rolls over me as I study Fletch’s face. His smile wasn’t carefree, even back then. He was a sergeant, responsible for his men’s safety, something I know he would’ve taken seriously.
But he didn’t have the hollow-eyed look that haunts him now. It’s the aching emptiness you see in the eyes of trauma survivors. It’s one I see every time I look in the mirror.
