by Gina Kincade
Megan blinks and licks her lips. “There’s nothing to fix, baby doll. You’re still perfect. No matter what that fucker did, you’re still perfect.” Her voice is strained and her eyes are sparkling more than usual. I think she’s fighting her tears.
“Then why don’t I feel like it? Why won’t my brother be my brother again?”
Megan nods. “Those are excellent questions. Regarding the former, I believe you don’t feel like you’re fixed because you can’t see that you’re perfect. Right now. Just perfect. As to the latter question, that might need a lot more time than we have. Shall I schedule an extra session to talk about Hon?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe next week?”
She nods. “I’ll email you with a possible schedule.” She leans toward her computer camera. “Asha, I really want to challenge you about your thoughts. I want you to ask yourself what would it mean to be fixed?”
I bite my lip, watching a little girl in all pink pull on her mother’s denim skirt as they make their way across the parking lot toward the coffee shop. They’re cute. There’s a part of me that wants something like that—a family. But there’s a part of me that feels it could never happen because even thinking about the way to make a baby is so uncomfortable for me. Sex, in my books, is fine. Because that’s making love with someone else’s body. An imaginary body. A real family requires a real body. Mine. And I got to a point in my life where I felt I just couldn’t get over that sexual hurdle. There is adoption, though. But I wanted a husband to help me raise a child. And more often than not, in a marriage, sex comes with it. So I was resigned to dreaming, but never hoping for something like that for me.
However, for once, I’m not scared of the thought of sex. With Ryder.
Okay, I am scared, but not like I used to be fearful of sex. Now, I’m more curious and scared of getting my heart broken.
What if having sex with Ryder could be like a gateway for me? Ryder doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to think of happily ever after, but he does seem to be the kind of guy who would be happy to have sex with me. And after he loses interest in little ol’ me, then I’d be that much more prepared to meet a nice guy who might want to have sex at certain scheduled times, who might put up with my weirdness and my feelings that I still need fixing, to make a family. Maybe Ryder could be the start to a normal life.
As long as I don’t fall for him.
I glance at Megan. “I guess, I thought when I would be fixed I’d know how to address the fact that I’ve been sexually assaulted and can’t remember anything about it. I guess I thought I’d be okay to admit I had and maybe still have a touch of PTSD.”
Megan sniffs. “You know, most people who can admit in public about their past traumas are usually doing it for a talk or workshop. They’re exposing themselves to help others. But for the most part, we keep our traumas close to our chests. And we only let in the few who have earned the right to know. But what do you think about that?”
I nod. “I see your point. I totally see your point.” I take a deep breath. “Megan, do you think I would be called a slut if I asked Ryder to have sex with me?”
She rolls her eyes. “Of course not.”
I chuckle. “Too bad. I kind of wanted a title like that. Something other than virgin would be nice.”
She smiles. “Honey, there’s only one way to remove the title of virgin.”
“I have to have sex.”
She rolls her eyes again. “No, silly. You have to open your mind to—hold your seat, babe—the possibility of—gasp!—not needing a title. Maybe, Miss Asha, the world is a big enough place to not have titles or labels or whatever. Maybe, my friend, you can have sex if you want to and it doesn’t have to mean anything other than what you want it to mean.”
I sigh. “God, you’re always so rational.”
“That’s why I get paid the big bucks.”
I laugh and feel good. So good that I’m going to do something crazy. I’m going to drive myself to Ryder’s apartment. I have his dets. I can do that. I will do that.
Ryder
So masturbating after kissing Asha wasn’t enough to calm my cock. After my shift, after I got home, I was exhausted, yeah, but I fell into bed, thinking about her. I felt so fucking dirty doing it, but I couldn’t help myself. I thought of her coming into my room, stripping naked, then she’d climb on my bed and straddle me. I fisted my hard dick, thinking of her slowly lowering herself on me, her wet walls tight and warm. I thought of her breasts, those same perfect globes that had been pressed against my chest not that long ago. And I came after I imagined her orgasming, saying my name as her long hair fell over her sweat-slick body.
After that, I slept like the dead, which I’m glad of. Thanks to a scheduling SNAFU, I have to work another twelve-hour shift. After working a shit-load of days in a row, we’re usually given at least twenty-four hours to recover, but shit happens. Tina’s making up for the mistake by giving me the next five days off.
So I woke a few hours before my shift, got in a workout, and am now showering, thinking of Asha again. I can’t believe I kissed her. And she kissed me. I had my body against hers. I felt her breasts, her soft stomach, the way her arms held me so tight. I felt her hot little pussy against my cock. Even if just for a second. But I did that. I think she was going to wrap her legs around me before we were interrupted.
Taking the soap, I lather up my balls, squeezing and pulling, making my already hard member even more so. I think about her little hands if she were here in the shower. I imagine her wrapping her fingers around the base of me, so I do the same. I imagine her stroking me up and down, up and down. She pays attention to my head, circling the extra-sensitive area, but then goes back to stroking me.
I spread my legs, bracing myself in the shower, feeling a tad guilty for thinking of Asha again. But fuck it. I can’t help it after we shared that kiss. And I’m going to see her in just an hour or so. She’ll be getting off her long shift, while I’ll be in agony during mine, missing her. Maybe we can talk about a date. Would she like dinner and a movie? Or maybe something less traditional? Bowling? Once, I overheard her say she liked dancing. I could trade off my pride and go to a club for her.
I can’t remember the last time I went on a date. A real date with food and conversation and flirty gazes. I’ve been such a shit to women.
Even with my roaming thoughts, I’m stroking harder, imagining Asha kneeling before me. She’d smile up while she’d have her hands around my cock. I grunt at the vision. Then she’d open her perfect full lips, lips so plump I can sink into them, and they’re even more full after I’ve kissed her, kissed her for long minutes. I pump at my shaft even faster as I think of her mouth, pulling me in. She licks around my head then right over my slit. I gasp and groan. Fuck, I want her.
In my imagination, I lift her from her knees, hiking her up my body, holding her luscious ass as she wraps her legs around my hips, like she was going to do in the janitor’s closet. This time she’s naked, and I slide in because she’s so wet for me. I have both hands fisted around my cock, ensuring it feels like being all the way inside a woman, inside Asha. And then I imagine her coming, her inner channel contracting around me, squeezing me, while she whispers, “I’m coming. Coming for you.”
My own orgasm takes me. It scuttles down from my skull, through my spine and right into my testicles where I feel the delicious warmth of my desire pump through my cock. I open my eyes enough to watch my ejaculation. Must be a guy thing, but I always want to see if I can spray the ceiling. I am shooting crazily and grunt with a weird mix of pride and the associating pinch of humiliation at making myself come like this.
After pushing myself during my workout and now this, I’m boneless and wish I could just sit down in my shower. But I don’t have time. I want to shave for Asha. I want to look clean. I know I’m not good enough for her, but I’ll try to look the part until she figures it out.
With shaky hands, I clean up and turn off the shower. Getting out is
an exercise in control, since my legs are weakened by my orgasm. I towel off, wondering if I can talk her into meeting me when I eat during my shift. Would she think I’m desperate if I wanted to be with her so soon after our first kiss? But I am desperate. For her. Not in a weird, criminal way. Hopefully in a John Cusack, stereo-over-my-head way.
I’ve thought about calling her hundreds of times. I did text. When I woke up, I wrote that I hoped the rest of her shift was good. That sounds casual, right? But the instant I sent it, I realized how it was too soon, how it might be too pushy. I don’t know. It might be too much because I already know what I feel for her is too much.
She couldn’t possibly feel the same for me. She’s so…smart, intelligent, funny, sometimes silly but in such a good way, tough, stubborn, and a born fighter. I can tell she’s a good person in that she has that look that nothing she’s done she regrets to the point where it keeps her up at night. Or maybe she can hide that better than most. But more than likely, she’s just an amazing woman. And probably the kind of girl who has had few sexual interactions. Maybe with some long-term dick of an ex-boyfriend who still calls her and still wants her, and I’ll have to tear off his fucking head.
Jesus Christ, has my imagination taken control of my thinking or what?
I walk through my bedroom naked because living alone I can do that sort of thing. Plus, after that intense orgasm, my dick is bothered with anything touching it. Too bad, Bone Ranger, I internally tell my cock, and, yes, that’s what I call it. Bone Ranger needs underwear, preferably boxer briefs since I’ll be fantasizing about Asha today. For her, I might need to think of a better name for Bone Ranger. Something nice so as not to scare her. Steve. Is that a nice name? Seems like the kind of guy you can rely on, who won’t scare you. Someone who would do your taxes for you, you know?
But glancing down, I know my soon-to-be Steve has scared many a woman. Well, intimidated. I’m not exactly small. When I was young, I thought that was cool as fuck. I’m still young at twenty-nine, but I’ve learned a lot since then. Like the fact that nice girls really are freaked out about big dicks. Sure, they might be up for the challenge, but they think I’m nothing serious. And throughout my life, I’ve never worried about that. Until Asha. I want her to think of me as reliable. Nice. Clean. Even though my fantasies about her are getting dirtier and dirtier. I want her to think we can date, get to know each other, and before she finds out I’m scum, maybe I can…I don’t know…make her fall in love with me.
Holy fuck, I’m in so much trouble with this girl. Er, woman. Doctor. Jesus, she’s so extraordinary I can’t even describe her without sounding like an idiot.
Bone Ranger and I have a talk about the boxer briefs, and after a few tense seconds he’s okay with clothes again. I’m pulling up my black scrub pants when someone knocks on my door. It’s six-ten. In the evening. Not exactly late, but I’m new here and haven’t had anyone just stop by before.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass pane of a window as I walk to my door. I didn’t put a shirt on and my scar from when I tried to save six men from their blown-apart Humvee is still, two years later, massive and pink. It doesn’t help that my tattoos are like a before and after picture. Before: inked skin, where you can tell what the tattoo is or what it says. After: shiny new flesh, exhibiting garbled tats and healed suture marks because that’s what happens when you run into an IED that isn’t finished maiming your buddies.
I look like I could join the Russian mafia. And I used to like my look. Now I wonder what the hell Asha sees in me. I’m too rough. I’m too scarred. I’m not good enough.
I try to push those thoughts aside. Asha’s smart. She’ll figure that out soon enough. So, why not take the pretty little doctor on some dinner dates in the meantime? Kiss her a little. Or a lot. She’ll see what a shit I am and then dump me, and you know what? I’ll still be the better for it. Because I will have spent time with quite possibly the world’s best woman. So, yeah, it’ll suck when she dumps me, but worth it.
Before I open the door, I think if it could be my landlord or a neighbor knocking. Shit, what if it’s my sister? She said she was thinking of moving here. I’ve been trying to talk her into Laramie since the second I landed in this cowboy city. I like the small-town vibe to it, like people still give a damn.
It would be just like Zoe to surprise me by showing up on my doorstep to let me know she needs help unpacking. I smile, thinking of ruffling up her hair after I hug her to death, and open the door.
“Asha.” My voice is dry. Rough. Almost breathless.
God, I want to kiss her. I want her in my arms and almost reach out to do that, but I stop and look at her.
She looks so tired, but also wired. There are dark half-moons under her huge and round brown eyes, but they’re sparkling. A lot. She’s biting her lip, looking worried. But when she sees my chest, my arms, her expression shifts to something else entirely. She blinks slowly, looking surprised and, if I can hope for as much, a little desire glimmering through her orbs.
“Ryder, I—” She stops, tilting her head at my scars. “That looks like you had surgery.”
God, I like her. Her medical mind is whirling with information about my body. She probably knows more about what happened to me than I do, just by looking at me.
I grab her hand, something I really like doing, and pull her in. “Get in here. It’s cold.” Although it’s March and has been a little warmer than usual, or so the people tell me, it’s cool and damp this evening, and I thought it might have snowed while I’d been sleeping.
As she’s entering my apartment, she shakes free from my hold on her but steps closer, her inspection of my scars not at all done. Fuck, I like her close. She’s wearing a black hoodie with a giant purple scarf wrapped around her a million times and her green scrubs. Her bun is even messier, and I want to take her glasses off and clean them for her.
She gently places cold fingertips against my scar at the side of my ribs. “You were on a tube?” She’s talking about the fact that I had a chest tube in me after my lung collapsed.
I nod, while she briefly glances up but then back at my side. I even try to move my arm a little out of her way, because I fucking love her this close. I love to smell her. I grew up in Indiana, not a lot special there. Except my grandmother lived close to a bee apiary. The owners loved their bees and goats and made this soap that smelled like clover honey—sweet yet still floral. That’s Asha. I want to sniff her, take in her scent, cradle her, and treat her like she’s a fragile rose bud. And then bite her. Fuck, it confuses me how I feel about her.
“What happened?” she asks on a whisper.
I tell her about stumbling into the Humvee, how the IED wasn’t done, how I don’t remember much after that. Her nimble fingers inspect all the former stitch sites.
“I count at least forty sutures. No, there’s more.”
“Doc said I had forty-six.”
She winces. “Must have hurt. Badly.”
I shrug. “I’m okay.”
She looks up, studying me.
The dark circles under her eyes make me worried for her. “You sleep at all during your shift?”
She slowly nods. “I might have gotten a few hours in. Are you going back to work?”
I nod, telling her about the schedule mix-up, then I say, “You need to sleep, baby.” Shit. I said it again. Baby. And this time, she notices. I know she does because her face alters, she’s even more curious about me, studying me harder.
“Sleep? Never heard of it before.”
I smile.
“You’re probably wondering why I’m here.”
I can’t believe it, but I was in such shock she was here, I hadn’t thought why. Fuck, is she going to dump me already? Not that we’re dating or anything. But if she is here to break off our non-dating relationship, maybe now would be a good time. I’m already too attached. I like her so much. And the more time around her, I’m sure, the more I’ll like her and think even stupider thoughts, like ho
ping she could fall for a schmuck like me.
She looks around at my small apartment and Spartan-like furniture. Yeah, my place isn’t much, white walls and beige carpet and a couch with a few chairs, Neil’s beanbag for whenever he visits, a TV, and down the hallway is a guest room with almost nothing in it, and my bedroom with my big bed and my computers. I don’t do decorating, except there is an Army-issued blanket on the couch. It’s amazing people don’t ask me to decorate professionally, right?
“I—ah. Well, I was thinking—”
I don’t want her thinking. I want more time to…kiss her, get to know her, play out this fantasy of mine. Just a few days. Okay, I’ll settle for one.
So I do something that’s pushy and probably foolish too. When she turns back to me, her big brown eyes seeming to search mine as she struggles to find the right words, I lower my head and kiss her. I’m rushing and not quite on target, but I find my way more squarely on her lips, where she’s instantly kissing me back.
My heart speeds up, and I’m so happy she’s kissing me in return. Her full lips move in time with mine. Placing my hands on her waist, I push her as I walk through my sparse living room, down the hallway where I slide my tongue in her mouth, and find my bedroom. Her hands are on my shoulders, rubbing up and down from my deltoids to my neck. I think she might like my shoulders, and I’m glad I worked out before this. I’m breathing hard by the time I have her in my room, wondering what the fuck I’m doing.
I lean away to kiss her neck, but her purple scarf is in my way. Instead, I find her ear, and lick the lobe then suck in the tiny piece of flesh, making her moan. Her hands flitter down to my pecs, almost making me gasp. God, I like her touch. Her cool hands against my molten skin.