by Sabrina York
“Is she?”
His sharp question bounced between them and Claire stared at him. “Isn’t she?” she asked, almost in a whimper.
“I don’t know, but when she’s with me, it doesn’t feel like she’s in love with another man.” Not anymore.
She clapped her hands over her ears. “Oh, I don’t want to hear it.”
“Do you love her?” he asked.
Claire huffed in outrage. “Of course I do.”
“Do you really want her to marry a man who barely notices her?”
“You’re not playing fair.”
“You’re damn straight, I’m not. I care about her. I’m not letting her go. Not to a guy who doesn’t appreciate her. A guy who . . .” He flapped his hand, trying to find something wrong with Cody, which was difficult because other than his poor taste in women, there wasn’t much to complain about.
“Well? A man who, what?”
“Who sleeps with women who aren’t virgins!” A bellow. And yeah, grasping at straws, but a man took what he could.
He was still horrified at the news that he’d debauched Porsche, fucked her long and hard with no concern for her tender sensibilities, but he didn’t have time to contemplate it, not now, not with Claire coming at him.
“If you hurt her . . .” She waggled a finger. She did that a lot, he’d noticed.
He took it gently in his fist. “I won’t.” He stared at her. “I really do care about her, Claire. I only want her to be happy.”
“And if she can’t be happy with you?”
God, that prospect had barbs all over it. “Then I leave.”
And that was the horrific truth of the matter. The absolute bottom line.
If Porsche really preferred Cody over him—after everything they’d shared—then he wasn’t the man for her.
Plain and simple.
It might kill him, but there it was.
Chapter Twenty-two
To Porsche’s delight, she spotted Brandon in the dining room, just finishing up lunch. She waited until he carried his plate to the tubs on the table by the butler’s pantry and then grabbed his arm and pulled him into the room.
It wasn’t a butler’s pantry so much as a prep room for the banquets, but it was quiet and deserted and perfect for a stolen kiss.
“I’ve been looking for you,” she said, curling herself around him and glorying in the outdoorsy scent that still clung to him.
“I was guiding the trail rides,” he reminded her, although she’d not forgotten. There was, however, something in his demeanor that bothered her. A reserve she’d never experienced with him.
She pulled back and stared at him. “What’s wrong?” Damn it. It seemed as though she wasn’t going to steal that kiss. Not with him in this mood.
He looked away. His throat worked. “Claire . . . told me.”
Damn Claire. Porsche knew—just knew—her friend would do something to bollix this up. But hell, she wouldn’t let her. Brandon was her man and she would fight for him. She fixed a soothing expression on her face, set her hand to his cheek and murmured, “Told you what?” It annoyed her that he wouldn’t make eye contact, that he stepped away, out of her embrace. And yeah, it scared her a little.
“She told me. About you. About that.” He waved in the general vicinity of her vagina. “I’m . . . so sorry.”
Porsche blew out a breath. He wasn’t making any sense. “Brandon?”
“What?”
“What are you talking about?”
He scrubbed his face and raked his hair. He probably would have banged his head against the wall in his self-remonstration if she hadn’t taken him by the shoulders and forced him to look her in the eye.
“Well?”
His features crumbled in on themselves. “She told me you were a . . .”
“A what?”
“A v- . . . A v- . . .”
“A vampire? She told you I was a vampire?” She narrowed her eyes. “That bitch. She knows he only bit me once.” It said something for her delivery that she was able to make him laugh in this condition.
“She told me you were a virgin. I didn’t know. I swear. I would have . . . Jesus.”
Porsche froze. She stared at Brandon, taking in his remorse, his anguish, his guilt. Poor thing. Little did he know, there wasn’t a reason for any of it. Not a bit. She snorted. “And where did she get that idea?”
He blinked. “I . . . What? You mean you weren’t? You aren’t? I didn’t?”
Barely one complete question to work with, but she gave it a stab. “No, no, and no.”
“But . . .”
“It was a guy I met in Dallas. We dated for a while and he convinced me it was time and, well, I wasn’t getting any younger.” She frowned at him. “There’s something of a cut-off date for virgins in this day and age, you know. At a certain point it becomes something you don’t want people to know.”
“Did he know?”
She glanced down at her hands. “No.” She shrugged. “It wasn’t awesome.”
“Good.” A savage declaration.
The laugh bubbled out of her. “You were infinitely better.”
“I fucked you against the wall, Porsche.”
“And over the table,” she offered helpfully.
“I didn’t even . . .” He gestured to his jeans. “We didn’t even undress.”
“It was perfect.”
His gaze met hers; his was wreathed with something that looked like hope wrapped in cynicism. “Was it?”
“You were perfect. You are.”
“I’m not.” He turned away again and sucked in a deep breath. “Porsche, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“I know.”
“No. You don’t. It’s big, and I’ve felt like a jerk hiding it from you, but you need to know.”
“I do.”
He set his hands on her shoulders and held her still. “Please. Let me get through this. It’s difficult. When I’m done, you can decide if you still want to be with me. If you don’t . . . I totally understand.” But it would kill him. She could tell it would.
It hardly mattered.
She stared up at him, waiting patiently for him to tell her what she already knew. What she’d already accepted. What she didn’t give a good goddamn about.
“There was an IED in Iraq.”
“Yes.”
“I told you my leg was wounded.”
“Yes.”
“That . . . wasn’t entirely true.” He blinked several times. Sweat popped out on his forehead, and she wanted to hug him, hold him, somehow make this easier.
“I know about your leg, Brandon.”
“No, Porsche,” he barked. “You don’t.”
“All right. I know about your prosthetic then.”
“You see it—” He froze. Gaped at her. “What?”
“I’ve known for a while.”
“What? How? Who?”
“It’s not an issue for me.”
“But . . . but . . . but . . .” His lips worked like a trout’s. Fortunately she was fond of trout. She pulled him down—using his ears as handles—and kissed him.
“I don’t care. You’re perfect the way you are, doofus.”
“But . . .”
“And for that matter, did you seriously think I was the kind of woman who would scamper away because of such an inconsequential thing?”
“Inconsequential thing?” His squawk was a little outraged, a little bit bemused. “It’s a leg.”
“I am a McCoy, Brandon Stewart. I. Do. Not. Scamper. Do you understand?”
His laugh was damp and had a thread of panic woven in it. “You might when you see it.”
“Oooh.” She wriggled her fingers. “Big bad scary scars.”
“It’s a .
. . stump. It’s not pretty.”
“I’m not asking for pretty.”
He stilled. Stared at her. “What are you asking for?” His voice was a little breathless.
She reached up and combed through his hair. “Brave. Strong. Loyal. Fierce.”
“Sounds like you need a dog,” he mumbled.
“Funny. Smart. Curious.” She shot him a sultry glance. “Unbelievably sexy.”
He shrugged. A dash of red blossomed on his cheeks. “I could do that.”
“A man who is very cooperative.”
“I’m hardly a submissive.”
“No,” she barked. “Not submissive. All I want is a man who does everything I tell him to do without question. Is that so much to ask?”
“Not too much to ask,” he said sweetly. “Too much to expect, perhaps.”
She put out a lip. “Seriously? Why do you have to be so difficult?”
“I cannot guarantee I will always agree with you.”
“Of course you will.”
He kissed her forehead and sighed. “Shall we move on? Maybe discuss that point later?”
It seemed wise to comply, although she was hardly backing down.
“What else do you require?”
“Oooh. Oooh. A man who is an absolute wild thing in . . .” She waggled her brows. “The kitchen.”
“Really?” He grinned and eased closer.
“That is such a turn-on, I can’t tell you.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“So good to know.”
“Mmm. You’d look so hot in an apron.”
“Don’t push it.”
“You could baste me, baby.”
“Oh, God,” he moaned, pulling her into his arms, though there was a playful smile on his face. “Let me cook for you, baby. Let me broil that meat. Whip those eggs.”
“Oh, do it baby. Do it.”
It was probably extraordinarily bad timing that Cade poked his head around the corner just then—or not. Maybe he’d heard their conversation and felt compelled to see what they were up to in his butler’s pantry with his guests just in the next room. He stared at them both for a moment, his expression a mask of chagrin. “Um . . . hey,” he said, after a moment.
“Hey Cade,” Brandon responded blithely. “How’s it goin’?”
“Um. Fine. How’s it going for you?”
“Awesome.” And then Brandon leaned down and whispered in her ear, “What do you say we find a place that’s a little more private?”
She nodded and whispered back, “And what do you say we take some whipped cream?”
• • •
Brandon was all for the whipped cream idea and even helped Porsche find a can in Lisa’s industrial-sized fridge in the pantry. But as they approached his camper, arms linked and laughing, trepidation sizzled down his spine.
This was it.
The moment of truth.
The moment he exposed himself utterly.
She’d made it clear that his leg—or lack of one—didn’t factor in her feelings for him, but deep inside, he just couldn’t believe it. Not really.
Some demon, deep in the well of his soul, kept whispering those hateful thoughts—that he was no longer worthy of love, or acceptance or her. He tried to silence it, but it was too deeply ingrained.
He was nervous as they stepped into his humble abode. He stood there, holding a ridiculous can of whipped cream, unsure of what to do or say next. He would have stood there forever, if Porsche hadn’t smiled up at him and taken his hand.
When she kissed it, with such painful tenderness, tears pricked at his eyes.
He blinked them back because seriously, real men didn’t cry. Did they? Real men weren’t weak and gooey inside.
Ah, but the truth of it was plain. She made him weak and gooey. And strangely enough, the love he felt for her, the love that made him quiver like a flan . . . that was where the real strength lay. Even as she laid him open and exposed his tender feelings to a harsh world, her adoring look made him feel like a titan.
He threw back his chest and drew in a breath and tried to smile bravely. “I’m scared to death about this,” he said, because she needed to know.
She cupped his cheek, thumbed his stubble. “I know. But I’ll make you a promise.” She tipped her head to the side and sent him a solemn look, one that calmed him. Gave him strength.
“Yes?”
“I promise to be gentle.” She led him into the tiny bedroom and sat him on the bunk. “I promise to respect you.” She knelt before him. “I promise to honor your sacrifice for our country.” She glanced up at him, gauging his expression, and she set her fingers to work on the zipper of his jeans.
He swallowed and stopped her hand. “Do you promise not to laugh?” Surely that wasn’t the worst thing that could happen, but somehow it had become one of his greatest fears.
“That depends,” she said with a brutal honesty that make his pulse seize.
He gaped at her. “On what?”
She lifted a delicate shoulder. “On whether or not you say something funny.” And then she flashed an impish grin. It should have soothed him, but it did not. Because she was back to work, unfastening his jeans and tugging them down.
The first bit didn’t bother him, but when they got closer and closer to his knee, he started to panic. “No one has seen this,” he croaked. No one but the doctors and nurses and therapists. Certainly no woman. No woman he loved.
For some reason, this pleased her. “I’m the first?”
The only. But he couldn’t make the words come out. Not now. Not at this moment. So he nodded.
“That makes me feel special.”
Well, shit. How could he continue to hold back if it made her feel special? He lifted his butt off the bunk and let her peel the jeans all the way off. He had to close his eyes—he couldn’t bear to see her revulsion—but in the end, he had to peek, because he couldn’t bear the tension.
She sat back and stared at his leg, studying it from one angle and then another. Her placid expression revealed nothing, and his anxiety rose. Then she lifted a hand and touched him, just above the knee. Traced the cup where it joined with his flesh. He shivered. Even though some of the nerves were dead down there, he shivered.
Chapter Twenty-three
“Well?” he had to say, because he couldn’t bear her silence. Any silence.
She looked up and their gazes met. “It’s beautiful,” she said.
Before he could stop himself, his eyes narrowed and he growled, “It’s not beautiful.”
“It is.” She stroked him then, a tantalizing brush of her palm. “Think about it, Brandon. How lucky we are.”
Lucky? “What do you mean?”
“We live in a time where such amazing things are available. A hundred years ago, you’d be wearing a peg. Like a pirate. But this . . .” She waved at his state-of-the-art titanium limb. “This is magnificent.”
And to his horror, and his delight, she bent her head and kissed him. Right there. On his thigh.
“Tell me how it works,” she said, stroking him gently, idly, as though she wasn’t even aware she was so close to his own personal tragedy. But then, when he thought about it, she was right. His leg was magnificent. It wasn’t something he should be ashamed of. It was a miracle.
He sucked in a deep breath and extended his leg so he could point to the various parts. “Well, this is what they call a transfemoral prosthesis, because it’s above the knee. Each different kind has its own name. This is the socket”—he pointed to the cup that enclosed his upper thigh—“it uses suction to stay in place.”
Her eyes widened. “Just suction?”
He nodded. “It’s very effective. The socket has been specially fitted to my residual limb.”
Her brow f
urrowed, and he grimaced.
“Okay. The stump. But I hate that word.”
She grimaced as well. “Who wouldn’t?”
“This is a top-of-the line prosthetic with an advanced attachment mechanism and control system—”
“Wait. Control system?”
“Yeah.” He grinned. This was the best part. “My prosthesis is myoelectric. These electrodes, here, sense muscular impulses in the residual limb and use the power electric motors that let me operate my leg as though it were real.”
“Seriously? You have motors in your leg?” Her eyes glowed. “That is awesome.”
“It’s very helpful in natural movement. I’ve tried others that were awkward and clunky. This one . . . feels and acts like a real leg. But it’s much lighter than a natural leg.”
“Lighter?”
“Well, yeah. Your legs are about 40 percent of your body weight. That’s pretty heavy. So prosthetics weigh less, for better function. It would suck to have to drag it around behind you.”
She sighed, rather melodramatically. “You are my own personal Six Million Dollar Man.”
He chuckled. “Not quite that much. But because this leg is so advanced, it was costly.”
“How costly?”
“Costly. Thank God there are groups out there that support wounded vets. They helped me get the leg, and the backup.” He waved at the other leg on the far bunk. It wasn’t nearly as functional as this one, but it was critical to have another in reserve in case this one developed problems.
“Will you take it off?”
He stilled. Take it off?
While he’d enjoyed bragging about his prosthesis, while her enthusiasm had helped ease this revelation, the prospect of showing her everything was horrifying.
She shook her head and eased up on the bunk beside him. “You don’t have to. Forget I asked.”
He frowned at her. She’d have to see it sometime. Especially if they were going to be together for any length of time. “It’s not pretty.”
“I already told you. I don’t care.”
“Just don’t forget I warned you.” And with that, he did it.
He detached the limb and set it on the floor.
She didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch. There was not so much as a hint of aversion in her expression. In fact, it was the opposite. She looked at him with reassuring awe on her features as she tenderly stroked and kissed him there, on the place his leg now ended.