by Megyn Ward
I can’t.
That’s what I’m about to say but then, like she seems to have a habit of doing, Grace changes everything.
She leans forward, her hips shifting under my hands, her breath catching in her throat when her hard, swollen nipples brush against my chest. Her hands planting themselves in the pillow at either side of my head. Suddenly her face is inches from mine, her mouth so close I can feel the soft, uneven push of her breath against my skin.
“Make me come, Ryan.” She whispers it, her lips skimming against mine with every word. “Please, make me come. I don’t care how.”
Thirteen
Grace
I’ll be embarrassed later.
Probably even mortified that I said it out loud. That I got naked and put myself in Ryan’s bed. That I climbed on top of him and asked him to make me come.
Asked is the wrong word.
I’m not asking him to do anything.
I’m begging him to do it.
But right now, I’m too desperate to be ashamed.
Later? You should be ashamed right fucking now because he doesn’t want to want you, Grace—remember?
“It’s okay,” I breathe out on a shaky laugh. “It’s okay, Ryan. I’ll just—”
Behind me, Ryan digs his heels into the bed, using his hands to push himself into a sitting position, his back pressed against the headboard of the bed. The move brings us face to face again, forces me to sit up too, returning me to my original position, straddling his waist. I feel him lean away from me and a few seconds later, the lamp clicks on, its soft glow illuminating his face.
We’ve been here before.
This is where he tells me to get away from him.
To get dressed and leave.
This is where he pushes me away.
Only he doesn’t.
“I already told you, Grace.” The callused palm of his hand slides up the length of my spine while the other one anchors itself under my ass, lifts me off his lap and onto my knees. “I don’t want you to leave.” The hand on my back reaches up to tangle itself in my hair, angling my head back so he can pin his dark, heavy-lidded gaze to mine. The hand on my ass slips between my legs, its wide, blunt-tipped fingers skimming along the inside of my thigh. “What I want is for you to say it again.”
“I…” I stall out, my mouth hanging open like I can’t track the question. What he wants from me. Because I can’t. I can’t think straight because Ryan is watching me. His hands are on me. In my hair, the pull of it causing tingling warmth to shoot down my spine, drawing a direct, humming line of sensation from his fist to my pussy. “I want you.”
“It’s not enough,” he tells me, the tips of his fingers skimming the slick, swollen seam of my pussy. The heat between my thighs begins to pulsate. His mouth hovering, brushing against mine, every time I take breath. “You have to say it.”
He’s right. I have to say it. Because this isn’t like anything that’s happened between us so far. This isn’t an impulsive kiss in the front seat of my car. A fast, hot orgasm against the door of his hospital room. Both happened so quickly I didn’t have much time to think about either one until after they were over. No time to wonder if I’d regret it later. No time to weigh the consequences of what happens after.
There is nothing impulsive about the way Ryan is touching me now. Nothing rash. This is intentional. It’s real and once it’s done, it won’t be ignored and it won’t be forgotten.
Not by either of us.
Because what happens next will either bind us together or break us apart.
“Come.” I lean into him, closing the space between us to skim my lips against his. “Please make me come.”
“Fuuuck,” he groans it, the curse pushed against my mouth while he teases my entrance with the rough pad of his middle finger, pushing into me with the tip of it until I whimper softly in response. Start to sink. Try to impale myself on the broad, blunt length of it.
The hand in my hair unclenches, his wide palm sliding down my back to dig its fingers into my ass, hard enough to make me gasp, stopping me in my track. “I didn’t get to look at you last time.” He presses a soft kiss against the side of my neck. Another one to my cheekbone. “I was in such a fucking hurry to get my hands on you...” He wraps his arm around my waist, anchoring me in place while the hand between my thighs starts to move again. “Get inside you…” The tip of his finger slides up the slick, swollen seam of my pussy until it’s pressed against my clit, swirling and teasing, until I’m half-crazy. Moaning softly with sweep and pulse of his fingers against me until I want to scream. “Ryan, please—”
That’s as far as I get before his mouth crashes into mine. Claims it with a hot, languid sweep of his tongue, licking and swirling inside my mouth until my arms are flung around his neck, and I’m clinging to him for dear life because I’m dying. I’m drowning and Ryan has no intention of saving me.
Breaking the kiss off on a low groan that sounds like my name, he nips and licks his way down my jawline. “Look at me, Grace…” he says, dipping his head to give the corner of my slightly parted lips a brush with his own, silently urging me to raise my eyes to his.
Giving in, I look up at him, letting myself drown in his deep, dark gaze, a moment before he stokes his fingers inside me. “Jesus Christ,” The curse rumbles through his chest on a groan. “You feel so good…” Gaze still pinned to mine, Ryan withdraws his fingers, almost to the tip, before pumping them back in, the force of it pulling his name out of my mouth on a soft moan. Has me reaching past him to grip the headboard over his shoulder. Locking my elbow to brace myself against the hard, fast fuck of his fingers.
“Ryan…” I gasp his name again, raising and tilting my hips. Shamelessly begging for more while his fingers pump and thrust inside my pussy. “I need—”
“Rub your clit for me, Grace,” he says, his voice low and uneven, growling his approval when I push my hand between my legs to slick my fingertips over my swollen clit.
“Ohmygod…” I start to shake, every hard, deep thrust of his fingers jolting my fingertips against my clit, pushing me closer and closer to the edge. “I’m—”
The rest of it gets lost as his mouth crashes into mine, his tongue licking and teasing past my parted lips to tangle itself with mine.
I come hard, moaning his name, the sound of it getting lost in his mouth, his hand pressed against the small of my back, holding me against him while he fucks me through my orgasm. My pussy clenching and gripping around his fingers until I’m dizzy and spent, my face buried in his neck, eyes squeezed shut while I wait for the room to stop spinning. Finally, conscious enough to form words, I lift my head to find him watching me, his dark, heavy-lidded gaze finding mine as soon as I open my eyes. Pulling his fingers slowly from my pussy, I watch as he lifts them to his mouth to push them past partially parted lips to suck them clean. The second my taste hits his tongue, his cock gives a hard jerk inside his track pants and I give him a smile and sit up, shifting my hips back to press my still throbbing pussy against the rigid length of him.
“I guess it—”
That’s as far as I get before Ryan’s hands clamp around my upper arms to gently, but firmly, move me away from him.
“You don’t want to do that,” he tells me, his voice rough and uneven, letting me go to push himself across the mattress and away from me.
Uh, yeah I do.
Before I can say it out loud, Ryan is off the bed, and standing on the other side of it, as far away from me as he can get. “It’s late, he tells me—you should probably go.”
And again, without giving me enough time to formulate a response, he disappears into the bathroom to wait for me to leave.
Fourteen
Ryan
It’s okay, Ryan. We all have scars…
Grace’s voice echoes in my head, so loud and clear, it sounds like she’s here. Like she’s right next to me. Like she never left.
Eyes popped open, I turn my head on the pillow and l
ook, expecting to see her, hoping that what happened last night was the dream and finding her next to me might be what’s real.
But the bed beside me is empty.
Because Grace did leave.
She left because I told her to.
Because when she touched me, I freaked out and the fact that she genuinely didn’t care about my performance issues just made shit worse.
Because I finally figured out what’s worse than having a dick that doesn’t work.
Having one that does.
Having a woman who sees you for exactly what you are but wants you anyway.
Makes you feel as perfect as she is.
And knowing she deserves better.
More than you can give her.
Fuck my life.
Swiping a rough hand over my face, I grit my teeth and start to move my legs, inching them toward the side of the bed. Breathing through the pain, I get myself into position, using the discreet handrail that someone was thoughtful enough to have installed into the headboard to lever myself up until I’m sitting on the edge of the mattress.
It takes me another five minutes to stand and another ten to get my crippled ass to the bathroom. Last night, I didn’t notice them but I do now. The non-skid texture of the floor. The same discreet handrails as in the bedroom. The low-profile toilet. The fact that the shower door is wide enough to accommodate a wheelchair.
I’m living in an apartment designed for someone who’s disabled.
Because that’s what I am now.
Who I am.
Cry me a fuckin’ river. When you gonna finally get tired of feelin’ sorry for yourself, Ranger? When you gonna just accept the fact that you’re broken and get the fuck on with it?
Get on with what?
I almost ask the question out loud.
Probably would have if I wasn’t so afraid of the answer.
Instead, I lean against the sink because I refuse to use the chair someone put in here to struggle my way out of my clothes, and avoiding my reflection in the mirror, hobble my way to the shower.
Thirty minutes later, I’m back in my bedroom, towel slung around my hips, when I hear my front door open and close.
Grace.
It’s stupid but she’s the first thought that pops into my head. That she came back, and it has me hurrying, yanking on the first pair of pants I can find before heading for the door.
There’re no hallways in this apartment. It’s something I found weird at first but now realize it’s by design. That like the wide doorways and lowered light switches, it makes the entire space accessible, so when I open my bedroom door, I can see directly into the living room and the kitchen beyond it.
Henley is standing at the island, back to me, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, phone wedged between her ear and her shoulder. “Mother, you’re being ridicu—” Whatever our mother said to interrupt her tenses up her shoulders like someone stuck a knife in her back. “For the last time—I will not be flying to Paris, or anywhere else for that matter, to buy a wedding dress, so you can call Jean Luc-whatever the hell his name is and tell him I found a designer, right here in Fenway.” She sighs, lifting a hand to drop her forehead into it. “Because I did, mother—Anton. Yes, I am serious—” Another pause, followed by a sigh. “I’m hanging up, I don’t have time for this right now… because I’m at Ryan’s—that’s enough.” Her voice hardens. Her tone goes cold. “I really am hanging up now.”
Now it’s my turn to feel like someone just stuck a knife between my shoulder blades because whatever our mother said to make Henley angry, I’d bet my good leg it was about me. I watch as she drops the phone away from her ear and jabs at the screen before tossing it on the counter where it bounces into the prescription bottle I left sitting there last night. Hearing the pills rattle around inside their plastic cage makes my leg ache.
Like she can read my mind, Henley picks them up and, turning the bottle slowly like she’s reading the label.
“You can count them if you want.”
When I say it, Henley turns toward the sound of my voice and lets out a yelp, fumbling the bottle. It hits the counter before bouncing off its edge to roll across the kitchen floor.
“What? No—” She gives me another quick, near frantic look over her shoulder, her face and neck erupting in ugly red blotches that I remember from when we were kids. It almost always signaled embarrassment and guilt. “I just…” She stoops to chase the pill bottle across the floor. “I didn’t know you were here. I thought—” Catching it against the backstop of the refrigerator, she straightens herself to give me a sunny smile, flashing me a set of perfect, white teeth. It makes her a stranger. Seem foreign somehow. “I thought you were still staying at Patrick’s.”
“Got crowded.” I cock my head a bit before pushing my shoulder off the doorframe to shuffle my way into the kitchen. “Your turn.” I skirt the island, heading toward the sleek red machine I’m assuming is a coffee pot nestled between an automatic can opener and a toaster oven. “What are you doing here, Hen?” I prompt her when she doesn’t answer me right away.
“I…” I hear the rattle of my pill bottle behind me as she sets it on the island between us. “I was on my way to the game and thought I’d swing by to drop off some last-minute comfort items.”
“Comfort items?” I chuckle, tossing a look at her over my shoulder. “What the fuck is a comfort item?”
“Uh…” Her voice drifts closer. “Nothing important,” she says, her profile easing into my peripheral as she moves to stand next to me. “Just some magazines. A few pair of socks. A house plant.”
Feeling like I’m being evaluated, I do my best to ignore the fact that she’s standing a few feet away and watching every move I make. “Sounds like shit you’d bring your grandmother in a nursing home.” Rolling the dice, I reach for the cabinet directly above the machine and feel ridiculously relieved to find it crammed with coffee mugs. Pulling one off the shelf, I stick it under the machine before lifting the lever to open it. “Quilters Quarterly? Cross Stitch Bonanza?” I tease her while I give the coffee pod caddy next to the machine a spin. When she doesn’t laugh, I pick one at random and feed it into the machine before looking up to find her staring at me, gaze trained on my torso and the decade’s worth of battle scars scattered across it.
I forgot to put on a shirt.
“Are you gonna cry again?” I hate the way I sound when I say it. Angry. Accusatory. Like she’s the reason I spent the last ten years of my life catching bullets and collecting stab wounds. “Because if—”
“That prescription is from January.” She interrupts me, her tone just as angry and heavy with accusation as mine.
“Yeah.” Looking away from her, I slam the machine closed and stab the button with a picture of a coffee cup on it. “So what?”
“So, it’s April and it’s almost full.” She ducks her head a little, putting her face in my direct line of sight. “How are managing your pain?”
For a second all I can do is stare at her. That’s how stunned I am. How angry. I take a step back, moving further down the counter. Away from her, putting space between us. “What the fuck are you asking me, Hen?” I’m trying to pretend she’s accusing me of using street drugs or maybe drinking to self-medicate but that’s not what she’s saying.
“The question is a pretty simple one—” She leans over to snatch my near full bottle of oxy off the island and holds it out between us like they’re something I’ve never seen before. “if you’re not taking your meds, then how are you managing your pain?”
I’m not.
I’m not managing it.
I’m eating it.
Or it’s eating me.
I haven’t quite figured out which.
Forcing my gaze away from the bottle I look her straight in the eye and lie. “I take them when I need them.”
Henley doesn’t even bother to call me on the enormous pile of bullshit I just shoveled at her. “Why aren’t
you taking your meds?” She sounds scared when she says it. Like she’s afraid of what I’m going to tell her. What my answer is. Scared or not, she advances on me, prescription bottle still held up between us. “Ryan—”
“Stop asking stupid questions, Henley,” I bark at her. Pushing myself toward her, I snatch the bottle out of her hand. “You know why.”
The instant I say it, her bottom lip starts to tremble and she quirks her mouth to the side to chew on the inside of her cheek like she used to do when we were kids. It’s a trick she used to use to keep herself from crying. She used to do it so much I started to worry she’d eventually gnaw a hole in her face. “You’re not him, Ryan. You’re not Dad. You could never be—”
“Yes, I could.” I talk over her, my tone loud and rough. “I could be—” Turning away from her, I work the cap off the bottle and dump them into the kitchen sink. “Because I want to take them, Henley. I want to take them—that’s why I don’t.” Before I can think about what I’m doing, I flip the faucet on and run hot water over the scatter of round, white pills in the bottom of the sink. “Because if I end up like him, I really will kill myself.” The admission hangs between us, making it impossible to look at her. Instead I watch the pills I dumped into the sink dissolve under the rush of hot water.
“So your solution is to what exactly?” She reaches out to slap the water off, her tone forcing me to look at her. “Suffer? Grit your teeth and bear it?” She shakes her head at me, dark brown eyes wide. She looks confused. Like she can’t understand how dropping off a few magazines and a ficus devolved into a shouting match with her headcase older brother. “That’s selfish—you know that, right? It’s selfish to expect the rest of us to just stand by and watch you suffer.”
“I don’t expect you to watch me do anything, Hen.” I smile at her but it doesn’t feel right. Hasn’t felt right for a while now. “I expect you to leave because that’s what you do when shit gets hard. You leave.”