by RC Boldt
I think I’m on the brink of confirming that it is, in fact, quite possible to get a contact orgasm from clothing alone.
But not just any clothing. I’m talking about Hendy’s clothing—specifically the shirt he gave me to sleep in. This soft, cotton shirt engulfs my body while his unique scent clings to it. Burrowing beneath the plush covers on his bed, I can’t withhold a soft sigh because although I’m comfortable and have brushed my teeth—thank God for that pack of new toothbrushes—something is missing.
Or someone.
Glancing over at the closed door of the bedroom, I wonder if he’s already asleep on the couch. It hasn’t been but a few minutes since he finally bid me good night and closed the door behind him. However, there’s no denying my yearning to go to him. Merely to thank him again for coming out tonight.
Okay, so maybe I would like to take another look at him, too. Because Hendy in low-slung pajama pants and an old, worn T-shirt that stretches across his firm, broad chest is something I’d like to see again.
It’s like something’s happened, like he’s somehow opened my very own Pandora’s Box. Earlier when I’d mentioned dirty talk and the prospect of being tied up in bed, and he hadn’t reared away as if I’d said something disgusting, it intrigued me. And I really want to know if those are things he’d be okay with.
Not just that, but that he’d be okay doing those things with me.
“God, Presley,” I whisper to myself, flipping the covers up over my face. “Get your inner slut back on the leash.”
And now, I’m whispering to myself beneath the covers of my patient’s bed while wearing his T-shirt and boxers. My, how the mighty have fallen.
Except I don’t have any regrets. In fact, I’m tempted to slip off my panties and touch myself while wearing Hendy’s shirt. To imagine him here with me is easy with his scent surrounding me.
Just as I kick off the boxers beneath the covers and my daring fingers reach for my panties, I hear something. My hand freezes with my entire body covered, and I wait, wondering what sound I heard. Maybe it was Izzy.
The bedroom door cracks open. “Presley?” Hendy whispers.
My hands jerk, flipping the covers down. “Yes?” I sound guilty as hell, but maybe he won’t notice. It’s certainly dim enough in here with only tiny shards of moonlight peeking through the blinds.
“I brought this just in case.” My eyes fall to the small wastebasket he sets beside the bed for me.
And if that doesn’t drive home the fact that I’ve been a hot mess in front of him tonight, I’m not sure what would. Not sure I can call a guy bringing me a wastebasket in case I need to puke romantic.
Thoughtful, yes. Romantic, no.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
I hesitate to answer because I am and…I’m not.
“Your bed is big enough.” I pause. “For both of us…and I trust you.” I wince after the words spill from my lips. Even if there’s truth to them, I hate the way they sound.
Needy. Pathetic.
I should know better—not only that, but I clearly need to handle myself better. This entire day has had me on a roller coaster ride of emotions. But I have to remember that although he’s been kind and gracious enough to rescue me tonight, it doesn’t mean he’s interested.
“I don’t really…” Hendy’s words trail off. Running a hand down his face with a soft sigh, he says, “I sometimes have…dreams.” There’s a pregnant pause. “I, uh, don’t want to hurt you by mistake. Not willing to risk it.”
Turning his eyes to mine, even in the moonlit room, I detect the discomfort in his disclosure. But it’s his next words which nearly shred my heart.
“I sometimes relive when they…tortured me.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Hendy
I don’t have a clue as to why I said that, why I admitted it. I certainly don’t like to discuss it, even with Dr. Givens.
I mean I know Kane’s heard me before. I’ve awoken a time or two with him standing nearby as if he was waiting, assessing whether to try to rouse me from my nightmare or to see if I would quickly pull myself out of it. Another time, I’d been so violent in my movements that I’d nearly injured him. Granted, it only happened once, but I’m still uneasy.
Even in the short time Izzy’s been with me, she’s managed to make a huge difference. But that doesn’t mean I want to take a chance with Presley. God, the idea of accidentally hurting her in any way guts me.
Now that I’ve mentioned this to her, I feel like an idiot. I swear it practically screams pussy because here I am, a former Navy SEAL—arguably some of the most badass, toughest guys out there—who has nightmares about people hitting and cutting him.
Boo-fucking-hoo.
Presley shifts, sitting up in my bed, and the way her hair is slightly tousled, the fact that she’s wearing my clothes… Shit. It’d be a lie if I said I wasn’t dying to know if she’s completely naked beneath it.
“Hendy…” She appears to be at a loss for words. “Have you been talking about this with Dr. Givens?”
Great. Just fucking great. “Yes.” My answer comes out short, curt. Because the last thing I want is for her to have an image of me being a fucking pussy with nightmares. And driving a fucking Prius.
Ha. I had to add that in for shits and giggles.
There’s a beat of silence before she responds. “Well, maybe you could, um, lie down with me for a minute.” There’s a pause. “Just to talk.”
Just to talk. If she were any other woman, I’d know exactly what her game was, but she’s not. Presley isn’t anything like the women I’m used to. The ones who want me because of my now former job, my also former good looks, or the rumors they’ve heard about my dick.
Because it’s big. And no, I’m not simply bragging.
I cock my head to the side, and I’m certain she can hear the teasing in my voice. “You just want to talk?”
Presley lets out a sigh. “Stop being a smartass. I just want to talk and wind down a bit.”
With a smile, I quietly close the bedroom door with a soft click, and when I face the bed again, Presley’s shifted over to make room for me.
The two steps it takes to make it over to the bed allow enough time for my mind to scream with warnings.
She’s your doctor.
She just broke up with her fiancé.
You need to keep your dick in your pants.
Settling myself on the bed with one hand behind my head and my right hand resting on my chest, I find it challenging to keep from touching her. Not only because I’m more than double her size, but because, right now, I also want nothing more than to be able to look deeply into those eyes of hers while I fu—
“Do you miss it?”
Her voice draws me from my thoughts with a jolt. “Miss it?”
“You know”—she shifts to lie on her side, and I feel her gaze resting on me—“being out there.” She pauses briefly. “With your guys.”
I don’t answer right away, and not only because I don’t like talking about it, but also because normally, civilians don’t understand. They don’t get what it’s like to be out there on the frontlines. To be the ones tasked with eliminating the enemy—to eliminate those who get their rocks off on hurting others, those who are innocent. We—me and my brothers-in-arms—are the ones who willingly signed up for that task. The ones who volunteered for the job because we believe in fighting the never-ending fight for freedom and protecting our fellow Americans.
What people don’t get—what people don’t notice—are our unseen scars. Because taking a life—no matter how shitty and evil an individual might be—is never easy. It’s something that stays with you for the rest of your days, regardless of how many lives you might have saved by eliminating that one asshole.
“Of course.” My voice is hoarse, and there’s no masking the tinge of emotion in it because if someone gave me the chance to switch places with any of them, I’d do it in a fucking heartbeat. “They were some
of my best friends who fiercely believed in the same ideals and wanted to make the world a better, safer, place.” Swallowing hard, I add softly, “I miss them every damn day.”
We lie here in silence, and I’m so lost in my thoughts that it startles me when I feel it. Her hand comes to rest on mine upon my chest. As much as I appreciate the gesture, I need to change the topic of conversation.
“Tell me more about your plans now that you’re a single woman.”
The hand on mine tenses just a fraction before she removes it, and I hear her head shift on the pillow to face away from me. Blowing out a heavy breath, she lets out a tiny, deprecating laugh at the end. “What am I not going to do is more like it.”
“The sky’s the limit, huh?”
“Pretty much.” Her response is a near whisper as we lie in comfortable silence.
That’s a fucking lie. I’m over here wishing—dying—for her to put her hand on mine again. To feel her touch.
The other part of me, bastard that he is, wants the same thing. Except in that scenario, her hand would be touching a part of me much lower.
“Hendy?”
Fuck. I’m such an asshole.
She turns to look at me, and once I meet her eyes, I notice she’s worrying her bottom lip nervously. “Would you, maybe, help me…with something?”
“Help you with what?” Do you need me to make sure my cock fits inside you? If so, sure. I’m on it.
Sweet Jesus. My mother’s rolling over in her grave right now. I just know it.
“Would you…” She takes a deep breath, shifting onto her side to face me fully before letting it out slowly. “Would you help me learn what guys normally like?”
She did not just ask me that.
“You don’t need me for that, Pres.” I hear the difference in my tone, the deepening of it, the slight raspiness. Because my dick is screaming, Hell, yes!
“But I…” She reaches out her other hand, placing it on my chest, and I’m frozen in place at the feel of her fingers on me, the way they move ever so slightly. Sure, she’s touched me a dozen times before but never like this.
And all I can think about is those slim, soft fingers wrapped around my—
“I do need you for that. And I think you’re the best person to teach me.”
“Why me?” I ask suddenly.
A beat of silence passes before she answers, her eyes appearing to search mine for something. “Because you’re you.”
I can’t hide my confusion. “I don’t understand.”
Nodding slowly, she lets out a tiny laugh. “You, Hendy. For one, you attract women by the herd wherever you go.”
As my lips part to correct her that their attention isn’t the good kind, but because of my scarred face, she interrupts me, briefly pressing a finger to my lips.
“Their attention is always on you because you have that something. But more than that”—her tone softens, becoming more subdued—“you’ve reminded me that life isn’t guaranteed; that we need to live it to the fullest and have no regrets.” Her gaze drops, shifting her focus to the bed covers as if embarrassed, and she adds, “I realize that now more than ever. And I know with certainty that I would’ve regretted marrying Dylan. Because he doesn’t…didn’t…”
My breath hitches as I wait for her to finish. When she makes no attempt to do so, I shamelessly prompt her. “Because he didn’t…?”
Letting out a tiny sigh, she focuses the heavy weight of her gaze on me with barely banked lust. “Because he never made me feel the…heat, the yearning, the…” She drags her teeth against her bottom lip, nipping at it as if she’s nervous. “Happiness.” There’s a pinching in my chest at her words, even as she continues. “He never made me feel like you do.”
Her lips roll inward, pausing briefly before finishing barely on a whisper. “Because you make me feel everything.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Presley
“Because you make me feel everything.”
I said it. I really went ahead and said it. Tonight feels much like a transformational experience for me. Like a butterfly finally emerging from its cocoon after being trapped inside for so long.
And if I’m honest, I want to be the cocoon wrapped around Hendy. Like a succubus. And I realize how slutty and inappropriate that sounds. Not only is he my patient, but I also literally broke up with my fiancé mere hours ago. Yet here I am, basically hitting on this man.
But I spoke truthfully. Hendy’s changed so much for me—my thinking, my perceptions. I’ve wasted so much of my time—of my life—already. I don’t want to continue along that path. I want to live.
And Hendy is the one person who makes me feel so incredibly alive.
When he doesn’t respond, I tear my eyes away, frantically trying to figure out how to save face.
Awkward doesn’t begin to cover it.
As my lips part to brush off my words, his voice stops me, harsh, gravelly. “Wait.”
My eyes fly to his, watching him warily.
He blows out a long breath, running a hand over his jaw. “Do you have any idea what it does to me when you say things like that?” With a groan, he stares up at the ceiling. “Damn it, Pres.”
“What do you mean, what it does to—ohhhh.” My words end on a wispy sigh, catching sight of the impressive tenting in his pajama pants. Sweet Jesus, this man is…big.
“Yeah,” he says with a chuckle that turns into a groan. “Oh.”
We fall silent for a moment until finally, I can’t hold myself back anymore. And when I kick off the covers and swing my legs over to straddle his lap, it’s as if he’d been anticipating my move, and his hands instantly go to my hips. My shirt rides up, the thin fabric of my thong doing nothing to dull the sensation of having his prodding hardness pressing against me through his cotton pants.
His eyes meet mine, fingertips flexing at my hips. Shards of moonlight filtering through the venetian blinds illuminate the room, and noting the tightness in his jaw, I raise my one hand to slide against it. The sound of the air conditioning kicking on, blowing cool air from the vents, does little to assuage the heat between us.
“You shouldn’t clench your jaw like that,” I whisper before slowly leaning forward to press my lips against his strong, square jawline. Relishing the faint rasp from the beginning of his whiskers, I can’t resist darting out the tip of my tongue.
“It’s hard not to.” It sounds like he’s speaking through gritted teeth.
My lips curve up at his words, and I can’t resist teasing him. “That’s not all that’s—”
“Presley.” The seriousness, the hint of urgency in his tone has me drawing back to meet his gaze. “Don’t do this. Not like this.” He swallows hard. “Please.”
My stomach plummets, and my cheeks bloom with shameful heat. Trying to scramble off him, I rush my apology out. “I’m sorry. So sorry. I’m an id—”
His grip on my hips tighten, not allowing me off his lap. “Look at me.”
Embarrassed, I slowly meet his gaze.
“Don’t apologize.” One hand reaches up, tenderly tucking some hair behind my ear. “It’s taking every ounce of willpower—and then some—to resist fucking you six ways till Sunday right now.”
My eyebrows furrow. “But—”
“But”—with a gentle smile, he speaks softly—“I can’t.” His warm breath washes against my lips. “As much as I want to bury myself so deep inside you, you’ll feel me for days, as much as I’d like to take my time with you and learn every inch of your body…” His eyes are blazing with such intensity that my breath catches in my throat. “I can’t do that. Not only because it’s been mere hours after you’ve made a major life decision, but also because you and I both know you deserve more.” His hand moves, his thumb tracing over my bottom lip in a sweet caress, his eyes following it. “More than me.” His voice is a hoarse whisper, and I can feel the pain radiating from it.
As my lips part to speak, he interrupts and what he says next seal
s the deal—whether he realizes or wants to admit it.
“You deserve more than an ugly, scarred guy like me.” His gaze drops as if he can’t bring himself to look me in the eye.
His lips are so close to mine, and his words have elicited so many emotions that I can’t take it anymore.
The moment my lips press against his, I relish their softness. I can tell he’s restraining himself by the stiff way he continues to hold himself. Nipping at his lower lip, I gently tug at it, and that’s the moment his large hand slides to cup the nape of my neck, fingers sifting through my hair. I think he’s going to deepen the kiss but the gentle tugging of my hair—tugging me away from him—makes it clear that’s not the case.
His gaze is searching, that crease between his brows pronounced. “You don’t want this, Presley,” he whispers, his hot breath washing against my lips.
Hendy thinks he’s too scarred and that no one can care for him because of it. He doesn’t believe anyone could love him…because he doesn’t love himself. Doesn’t love this version of himself. But he’s wrong. I can see it; I can see past the roadblocks, past the marred skin, past his claims. Because a man who would risk his life for unnamed Americans, who would risk his life trying to save his “brothers,” a man who would endure unfathomable torture for his country is a man who deserves more love than he realizes. He is more than able to be loved.
He just needs a reminder.
The thought pops into my mind immediately. Yes, he needs a reminder. He needs to realize he’s loveable, regardless of the way he looks on the outside. He’s so much more than meets the eye. My expression softens as my palm slides to the side of his cheek, and I gaze deeply into his eyes.
“You’re wrong.” Leaning closer, I kiss one corner of his lips. “I want this.” I press a kiss to the other corner. “More than I think I’ve wanted anything before.” This time, when my lips meet his, it’s as though I’ve pushed him to his breaking point.
He makes a rough sound in the back of his throat; the hand still entwined in my hair steers me, angling my face to drive the kiss deeper. His tongue delves inside to slide against mine as the kiss turns frantic, devouring. I can’t resist rocking over him, over his cock pressing hard against me, causing my panties to grow damp with my arousal.