His Forbidden Bride: 50 Loving States, West Virginia

by Theodora Taylor

  “I’m listening to what you’re saying, Doc, but I’m also thinking, ‘she’s talking about other guys. And I don’t like that.’”

  Again, I’m not quite sure what to do in the face of his stark truth, so I treat it like a medical mystery. Keep my voice neutral as I answer, “Yes, I noticed you’re kind of dominant.”

  “Dominant,” he repeats.

  “Controlling. Like you expect to be in charge. The way you had sex with me last night—it was like you were putting me in my place. Establishing who was in control.”

  He doesn’t answer, but when I dare to look up from my cereal bowl, a new presence has joined our conversation. His cock has hardened into a long, thick line under his thin boxer briefs.

  “So that turns you on?” I ask, swallowing to contain my breathlessness at the sight of him. “Dominating me?”

  He holds my gaze, blue eyes shrewd, like he’s thinking really hard about his answer to my question. But in the end, he nods. “Yeah, it does. When we’re together like that, I want you under me. That’s all I know.”

  Again I have to swallow.

  And he crooks his head, studying my reaction from his superior height. “That scare you?”

  I try my best to explain without confusing him even more. “It doesn’t not scare me. I had a friend who had a controlling boyfriend. He got worse and worse and then, when she tried to break up with him, he hit her.”

  “I’d never hit you,” he answers so automatic, it could be easily mistaken for fact. “I don’t hit women. That’s a conviction. I know I’d never do anything to hurt you, Doc.”

  I look at him, and he looks at me. Neither of us really knowing his true self for sure…

  Eventually I decide, “Okay, I believe you. Maybe that’s just your thing in bed. Wanting your partner beneath you. Hey, I’m from California. That means I’ve pretty much seen and respect it all. Namaste.”

  It’s a gentle joke, meant to diffuse. But his gaze continues to hold mine. And though we’re just sitting there with bowls of Kashi Cinnamon Harvest in our laps, it feels like he’s fucking me again; going hard and then slow on top of me.

  “Anyway…” I say, deciding it’s time to get out of this bed. “I was thinking maybe we should do some yoga after I wash the dishes.”

  I stand, take both empty bowls, and set them on the tray between us.

  He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his hesitation to go along with my yoga suggestion in his perfect stillness. And I get the sense he’s considering putting me underneath him again. Trying to decide whether or not to take back control of this morning.

  But in the end, he throws me a lazy smile and says, “Yeah, Doc, let’s do some yoga.”

  “I’m not going to lie, I kind of hate West Virginia. But I love living this close to nature,” I tell him as we walk on the footpath behind my apartment building toward the nature reserve—the only thing North Independence is known for other than the University of West Virginia.

  “This new?” I ask him, after we make it to the main dirt walking trail.

  “Old,” he answers with a shake of his head. He wraps his hand around mine, enveloping it as if walking with me like this is a must, despite his cane. As natural as the sun’s steady rise above us. Then he smiles over at me and asks, “You don’t have nature in California?”

  “We definitely do,” I answer. “But I grew up mostly in a place called Compton until we moved when I was twelve, and let’s just say my family isn’t exactly into nature walks.”

  He scans the path we’re hiking up, taking in the brush, trees, and dirt as far as you can see. “I don’t think I used to go on a lot of walks either. But I like being outside,” he says. “This feeling I got right now is old. I feel more free out here than indoors.”

  “Me too,” I answer. “But don’t get used to it. We’re having a warm week, but spring in West Virginia is super funky. Next week it could be all rain. Or snow. Then in the summer, you’ll have to deal with the mosquitoes.”

  He goes quiet, and I wonder if he’s familiar with mosquitoes. But then he asks, “Why Seattle?”

  I shrug. “Why not Seattle? It’s a beautiful city. And they have a wonderful children’s hospital. I’m lucky they want me to serve there.” More than lucky, I think to myself, especially considering my past.

  But John doesn’t know about my past, and he says, “You said you love your family. That you miss them. Then why aren’t you going back to California to live near them?”

  I shake my head, a chill going up my spine at the mere thought of returning home. “It’s a long story. A really long story,” I answer. “I just can’t go back there.”

  “You can’t go back to California, but you hate it here in West Virginia,” he says.

  “Well, hate’s a strong word,” I say

  “But that’s what you said.”

  “I said I kind of hate it.”

  “Because you don’t like to use strong words.”

  I glance over at him, kind of getting—no, really getting that he’s been listening to every word that comes out my mouth.

  “No, I’m fine with strong words. But West Virginia and me have a complicated relationship. On the one hand, I never would have been able to become a Pediatric Specialist if not for this state’s program. On the other hand, it’s West Virginia.”

  He shakes his head. “What does that mean?”

  I sigh, not really wanting to get into a conversation about race and ignorance right before we’re supposed to zen out with some yoga. And his innocent question makes me wonder anew about him.

  In his old life did he ever date a black girl? Maybe he prefers them. That would explain why he was so instantly attracted to me, and why he’s such a Colin Fairgood fan. I think of all my girlfriends who suddenly decided they loved country music when the handsome singer showed up to the Grammys with an African-American fiancée on his arm.

  “It’s different from California,” I answer vaguely. Then I gratefully change the subject when I see the patch of green grass where I like to do my morning practice in warm weather. “So here’s my favorite place for outdoor yoga...”

  After we set down our mats, I lead us through a routine that’s half mine, and half of what Ken included in John’s discharge papers. But I never quite find my center. John is better at yoga than I’d expect a man with his injuries to be, and it’s hard not to watch him instead of focusing on my breath and form.

  “Is yoga old?” I ask him as we walk back down the path.

  “No, it’s new, but I like it,” he answers. “The strength training stuff is old though. I like that, too. Like moving my body, even when it’s hard.”

  Trying not to think about my prison theory from the day before, I consider his situation. Without insurance, the hospital wouldn’t be too keen on him coming back to use their rehab facilities. Poor Ken was forced to release him with little more than his discharge paperwork. But it’s not like he can join a gym without ID…and even if he could, there isn’t one nearby other than the facility at the university.

  “I’ll pick up some weights on the way home from work tomorrow,” I decide out loud.

  But he shakes his head, his hand squeezing the cane tight. “I don’t want you buying any more stuff for me, Doc. You’re already doing enough.”

  “But you should be doing resistance training at the very least—it’s in your paperwork,” I point out. “Plus, I’ve been meaning to get some weights anyway.”

  I don’t mention that I haven’t bothered up to this point because my temporary housing in Seattle also includes a gym. Instead I insist, “Seriously, it’s no big deal.”

  He doesn’t answer, but his jaw ticks in a way that makes me suspect this situation—having a woman buy him things—is most definitely “new.”

  We walk back to my apartment, and I can tell the yoga and brief hike took it out of him. As soon as we get inside, he heads to the couch and puts both legs up on the ottoman I placed for him beside the coffee table.
And by the time I return from the bathroom, he’s dozing, chest rising slowly up and down.

  He looks so peaceful that I don’t bother waking him. Instead I eat a sunbutter and banana sandwich, my version of a mid-morning snack. I make him one, too, but he’s still sleeping when I finish. I hesitate, not wanting to wake him, even though there’s food waiting.

  Also, there’s something so inviting about him sleeping on my couch. The position isn’t great for his back or leg, my inner-doctor notes, even as my inner-girl convinces me to set the plate with his sandwich on the table and sit down beside him.

  But then the awkwardness comes back. Real life is so much harder than I thought it’d be when I left California. Figuring out what to do with my body and words between all the specific stuff—like doctoring and editing videos and playing guitar and half-watching old musicals—that’s hard. Knowing what to do with myself when I am in the same room as John—even harder. What would a real life person do in this situation? I wonder to myself.

  I gingerly lean back and rest my head on his shoulder. Only to let out a little gasp when he immediately moves to accommodate me in his sleep, shifting so his arm is around my waist, his cast rests on my thigh, and my head has no choice but to lie on his chest.

  I might not have known what to do with myself, but he seems to know exactly what to do with me. He presses a kiss onto the top of my head before settling back into a deep sleep. And either his tiredness is contagious, or I must be pretty wiped out, too, because I wake up a few hours later, dazed and confused.

  There’s a hand inside the waist band of my yoga pants, and a voice in my ear, “Wake up, Doc.”

  The sandwich I left on the table is gone, I notice, as two fingers push into my already swollen pussy. Eliciting a groan as he captures my mouth with his. His kiss tastes exactly like the sandwich I ate earlier, but I quickly become hungry for something else as his hand moves between my legs.

  That is until he pulls out his fingers and cuts off the kiss.

  I mewl, confused and disappointed. But then he pushes my t-shirt and sports bra up before shoving me back on the couch. My pants come off next, and I have to fight hard not to feel self-conscious when he spreads me open on the couch in the late afternoon sun, taking in my naked sex and half-exposed breasts with hungry need.

  He moves my hands, one at a time, onto my breasts.

  “I’m going to make you feel good, Doc, and I want you to keep your hands right there. Don’t drop them, no matter how excited you get. If you need something to do with those hands of yours, rub on them pretty breasts for me. That’s a good way to keep from getting punished.”

  His suggestion is so bald, so lewd, and without hesitation or self-consciousness. Yet my nipples pebble behind my hands, begging me to fondle them exactly as he’s told me to.

  “Condom,” I say breathlessly, before he forgets, before I forget. Again.

  But he doesn’t move off the couch, just repositions himself. And the next thing I know, his head is between my legs, his tongue dominating my slit almost as slow and unrelenting as his cock did the night before. His nose presses against my clit, teasing me, erasing my pride and embarrassment. Soon I’m desperate, rubbing and squeezing my own breasts as his tongue works me below. Fighting to keep my hands on my chest and not grab his head.

  The orgasm, when it comes, feels like a reprieve. A welcome release from holding myself back as it washes over me.

  “You did good, Doc,” he says with his lazy smile as he crawls over me and covers my body with his. “A little too good. I’m kind of wishing you’d done bad.”

  Before I can ask why, he hits me with another soul-stripping kiss, pushing my head into the back of the couch as his lips once more claim mine. I greet his kiss with an aching moan, helplessly aroused by the feel of him between my legs below. His sweatpants are doing little to cover the fact of the long, hard cock underneath. And perhaps unintentionally (a very small perhaps) his erection is teasing me, pushing into my still engorged clit, reminding me of how good it was last night with him. How good it could be again if one of us goes back into the bedroom to get a condom.

  I break off the kiss to offer, “I can get a condom. I really don’t mind.”

  But he only smiles—no, smile isn’t quite the right word. More like bares his teeth. The expression he wears isn’t nice enough to be labeled a smile. And the heat in his eyes practically burns me alive as he says, “I’ll let you know when it’s time for me to be inside you again, Doc. But right now, c’mere.”

  He rears backwards and pushes down his sweatpants, just far enough that his cock springs out, long and heavily veined. “I’ve been dreaming of seeing your beautiful lips take this,” he tells me as he leisurely guides his cock into my mouth.

  I receive him docilely, more curious than ashamed. His scent is impossibly virile: sweat and man and something earthy and wild I can’t quite put my finger on.

  I swallow him in, controlling my gag reflex in order to take him deeper and deeper. I want to please him more than I’ve ever wanted to please any other lover I’ve ever had. And it feels like a true achievement when his back suddenly caves, and a pained groan erupts from his chest before he grabs my head and releases a jet of cum into my mouth. I drink him in, my mind buzzing with his pleasure and my own, because I’m the one who did this to him. Caved his back, made him relinquish some of his tight-fisted control.

  When he’s done, he drags me up his body in a sort of kneeling hug. “Fuck that was good, but c’mere. I want your mouth, Doc.”

  As with everything, he doesn’t wait for my permission, just grabs me up in another kiss, his cast thumping into the small of my back as his mouth moves over mine, lazy and hard.

  Soon I’m squirming against him. And maybe I’ve lost my mind, because I want him inside me again. So bad, I can feel my sex milking the air, begging to be filled.

  So bad, it feels like I’m being reprimanded, when he sets me away from him and says, “How about something to eat, Doc? That sandwich was good, but it’s getting late and I’m starving.”

  Chapter Nine

  He’s not the only one starving, I think bitterly a little while later when we’re both in the kitchen.

  Then I immediately reprimand myself. Because he’s broken, and I’m the medical professional in the wrong. Sex wasn’t your original intention, I remind myself as I place the vegan lasagna in the oven. Meanwhile, my lunches and dinners until my next cooking day on Wednesday are simmering on all four of the stove’s burners. A seeming reflection of my mood, and I can feel his blue gaze following me as I move around the stove, checking and stirring the various dishes.

  I try not to be irritated. It’s not his fault that having him watch me cook has my body all riled up. But tell that to my striatum; the section of my brain that controls sexual desire is completely out of control. And I’m glad I chose black yoga pants this morning, because I am dripping. So wet, I’m sure there’d be a visible damp patch at my crotch if they were any other color. So wet, I can smell myself, smell how much I want him inside me again.

  “This is new,” he tells me when everything is either simmering in a pot or baking in the oven.

  “Cooking?” I ask, looking over my shoulder at him.

  Big mistake. He looks so sexy leaned up against the counter. My pussy clenches, sending a yearning ache straight through me.

  He nods. “I don’t think I cook. Ever.”

  And my stomach knots, wondering if he has someone who cooks for him. Someone he’ll remember any day now.

  His expression darkens. “I like how smart you are, Doc. But sometimes I don’t like it.”

  “Sometimes like when?” I ask.

  “Like right now, when you get to thinking too much,” he answers. “C’mere.”

  I go to him, helpless as a marionette, and my body sizzles like coconut oil meeting heat when he pulls me into him for a long, hard kiss.

  “You like kissing me as much as I like kissing you?” he asks me.


  I nod, too turned on to tell him anything but the truth. “Probably more,” I say.

  He chuffs. “Definitely not more, Doc. It ain’t possible for you to like me more than I like you.”

  I’m not sure about that. After all, he’s in my home, and unlike him, I don’t have a traumatic brain injury to use as an excuse for my way-too-soon feelings.

  “You’re going to have to show me some of those no-meat recipes,” he says, resting his cast against the small of my back. “I want to feed you when you come home to me tomorrow.”

  I have no idea how to handle that statement, so I concentrate on the feeding part. “That’s seriously not an issue. I usually just eat leftovers. I mean, there’s not going to be enough for leftovers this week, because I didn’t know I’d be cooking for two. But I’ll stop by the grocery store on the way home. Maybe you can text me a list?”

  He stares down at me, his good hand stroking the side of my face like he’s thinking of bringing me in for another kiss.

  One of the many timers I set goes off on the microwave, interrupting the moment and releasing me from his spell.

  But only for a little while. We eat the mushroom lasagna for an early dinner, and neither of us so much as suggests watching a musical before bed.

  “No pajamas,” he tells me before disappearing into the bathroom.

  I napped earlier so I’m not tired. I’m something else that my medical vocabulary doesn’t cover. As soon as I strip out of my yoga gear, my core presents with fever. Hotter than I’ve ever felt it, damp all over and slick at the slit at the thought of what will happen when he returns from the bathroom.

  I think about, but don’t end up, putting on a set of pajamas this time. Instead I climb into bed, welcoming the feel of the cool sheets on my hot body.

  But as turned on as I am, I can’t stop thinking about the fact that I have to go to work tomorrow. Look all those doctors and parents of patients in their faces as I pretend to be someone I’m not. Someone with ethics, someone who’s not letting sex overrule her better judgment…

  “I swear, Doc, I could hear you thinking all the way in the bathroom.”