by Annie Kelly
Wyatt licks his lips, then leans forward and presses his mouth to mine.
“I wasn’t avoiding you. Friday was intense. I had a shit day on Saturday with PT and I slept most of Sunday and Monday. But you’re here now and I don’t want to fight with you. I just want to move forward.”
“You could have at least texted me,” I counter. He looks apologetic as he leans closer.
“I know. I really am sorry.”
He kisses me again and his tongue flicks out against my mouth, questing for entrance. I allow it and for a moment, our mouths explore each other. After a long minute, Wyatt pulls back and looks into my eyes.
“What do you want, Carson?”
I chew on my bottom lip. “Right now?”
He nods almost imperceptibly. “Right fucking now.”
“All I want right now,” I say slowly, “is to feel your hands on me. I just want to feel alive.”
Wyatt freezes for a moment, our gazes locked, and then, before I can even breathe, he dips his head and captures my mouth, this time with more vigor and less gentleness. He deepens the kiss and wraps his arms tightly around me. I relish his tongue sweeping into my mouth, the soft scrape of his teeth on my inner lower lip. He groans as I suck on his tongue.
“Fuck, Carson. God, I want you so fucking bad.”
I moan in response, running my hands up over the muscles of his back and shoulders, then up into his hair. I pull lightly as the strands slide between my fingers and he begins kissing me even more ravenously. Like he’s starving for me. Like he’ll never be full.
Slowly, he pulls back. He motions for me to follow him from the living room into the kitchen, then through the small hallway to his bedroom. Once inside, he closes the door behind us, then begins to move toward me. I back up, then I sit down on the edge of the bed when the back of my legs hit the edge.
“Is this okay?” Wyatt asks. “Being in here . . . right now . . . with me?”
I blink rapidly, then nod.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Absolutely yes.”
I feel my nipples hardening against my sheer bra and I shiver as Wyatt slides his hands up into my hair. He pulls the strands in a delicious way and the pain is almost intoxicating. The lust rushes up and through me like a freight train.
“I want to see you,” he says gruffly.
His voice is slightly strained but his hands turn gentle as he begins to unbutton my blouse. But that tenderness disappears when the little pearl buttons refuse to cooperate. With one sexy eyebrow lifted, he takes both sides of my shirt and tugs. The buttons give way and I watch his gaze slide down to my breasts and belly. My skin is milky white and my dusky nipples are visible beneath the pale silk of my bra.
Wyatt doesn’t waste any time. He ducks his head and captures a nipple in his mouth, tonguing it through the fabric. I grip his biceps with both hands.
“Oh, god,” I moan.
I let my hand migrate up into his hair, feeling the short silky strands against my palm. I thread my fingers through it as his mouth moves along the valley between my breasts, giving the skin lush, open mouth kisses until he reaches my other nipple and nibbles at it. Losing patience with the fabric, he dips his thumb beneath and bares it, then devours my breast with his teeth and tongue.
“Fuck, Carson,” he says against my skin. He slides his free hand up the inside of my bare thigh.
Thank god I didn’t wear stockings.
Thank god my panties are anything but substantial.
As he pushes himself up out of the wheelchair and begins to lay me back all at the same time, I attempt to steady my breathing and my spinning head by beginning to be less of a bystander. I run my hands down the front of Wyatt’s well-worn flannel, then begin to unbutton it, revealing an expanse of taut tan skin that male models would envy. I drag my nails down over his abdomen and watch the muscles there flex into a six-pack. When my hand reaches his belt, he sort of growls. His eyes never leave mine as he reaches down and begins to remove my shoes, one at a time.
“Still okay?” he asks as he tosses my heels aside. I swallow hard, but nod, unable to speak.
He slides both hands up the sides of my thighs and I begin to squirm with my need. When his fingers reach my waist, he lets them travel to the button and zipper of my skirt. He makes quick work of those, then motions for me to elevate my hips as he slides the denim from my body.
I sit before him in nothing but my panties, a tiny black lacey pair that I’m really happy I chose to wear considering someone is actually seeing them. Wyatt sucks in a breath as his palms coast along my skin, from thighs to knees to calves, then back up. He slides both hands between my legs then pulls them apart. I force myself not to whimper as he lowers his mouth to my left thigh, giving a wet, sucking kiss that travels from one thigh to the other.
“Your skin is like a miracle,” he says, his voice dark with passion. He lets a finger travel up farther until it hits the embarrassingly wet gusset of my panties. He slides the finger beyond the elastic and into the wetness beneath and I fall back, my eyes closing, as that single finger breaches my slick opening and slides deep inside me.
“God, yes.”
I moan the words, which must spur Wyatt on. He surges up, presses his mouth to the top of my mound, then just below—dead center on my clit. I can feel my eyes rolling back in my head, my lids fluttering, but I couldn’t possibly focus on anything of any importance right now. Because right now my entire being—heart, soul, and certainly libido—is completely absorbed by the sensations at my very core.
“You taste as good as you look, gorgeous.” Wyatt’s words—the way he speaks to me—well, dirty talk, especially by a clearly practiced talker can be as hot as touch itself.
But, of course, there’s a lot to be said for touch, too.
Wyatt’s tongue flicks out, curling around my clit before pulling it into the warmth of his mouth. He surrounds my wetness with wetness of his own, lapping and sucking at me as though I’m a dessert he wants to savor—a treat he was dying to indulge in.
Using one hand to hold the cloth of my panties away from my body, he uses the other to spread me open for him. I know he’s staring at my flesh, examining and admiring just how wet he’s managed to get me. I manage to prop myself up on my elbows just in time to see him dive back into my wetness. His eyes meet mine as his tongue enters me and I almost swoon with the delicious sensation of having his tongue fill me again and again.
Moments later, he replaces his tongue with a finger, then two as he moves back to my clit, sucking hard until it presses against his teeth while he fucks me hard with his fingers. I’m so close to begging for him to fuck me that I consider bribery or some other method of convincing him. But when he flicks his tongue over my clit, then grazes it again with his teeth, I’m propelled up and over a peak I’m not entirely positive I knew existed.
I’ve come before. I’ve come hard before. But this? I’ve never, ever come like this—so hard that I feel actual aftershocks from the orgasm. So hard that I’m panting like a dog from the exertion.
So hard that I’m already half asleep when Wyatt gently shifts me over in his bed, then crawls up next to me, pulling me into his arms.
Chapter Fourteen
When I open my eyes again, the first thing I realize is that I’m not wearing underwear. Or a skirt.
I gasp, transported to a time when I woke up in strange places far more often than I should have. Far more often than I wish I had to admit to.
“Carson?”
Wyatt’s bleary-eyed stare greets my wide-eyed frenzy and his eyes change from sleepy to alarmed in two seconds flat.
“What is it?”
He pushes up with both arms, the sinews beneath his bronzed skin moving like they are being born or brought to life. His shirt is open and pants are still on. We didn’t have sex—or at least, if we did, he’s doing a great impersonation of someone who didn’t just fuck me a few hours ago.
“Carson, can you please say something? I’m usually pre
tty easygoing, but your eyes are the size of silver dollars and I’m starting to think I should check your vital signs.”
“I’m sorry. I just—I woke up and didn’t realize where I was. It scared me.”
Wyatt frowns. He levers himself up to sitting, then scoots closer to me on the bed. When he’s close enough to touch me, he places his hands on my thighs and looks deep into my eyes.
“You’re fine. You’re safe. Take a deep breath and relax.”
I swallow hard, then nod.
“You’re at my apartment and we just fell asleep maybe”—he glances at his phone—“two hours ago.”
I look up at the window, where the sun seems to just be setting. It’s still the same day. I’m still in the same place.
“You still with me?” Wyatt asks, his voice tinged with caring and the slightest bit of humor. I can feel my cheeks turning red and I nod.
“Yeah—I’m good. Sorry.”
He levers himself up over me, his shoulders and arms flexing with the effort, and leans down to capture my mouth with his.
“You are an absolutely gorgeous girl and you’re sexy as fuck, do you know that?”
I bite my lip and gaze up at him. The flecks of gold in his deep chocolate eyes feel like some kind of treasure only I’m meant to find. I shrug.
“I mean, I don’t know if I’m sexy as fuck, exactly, but I think I do okay.”
Wyatt grins and gives his head a little shake. “Trust me. You’re far more than okay.”
Then he pushes himself up and off me, moves to the edge of the bed, and maneuvers himself into the wheelchair.
“Can I make you some dinner?” he asks, eyebrow cocked. Smiling, I nod.
“Sure, but we’ve got to get your schoolwork done afterwards.”
“That, gorgeous, is a deal.” He grabs my hand and pulls me to standing. But, upon taking a look at me, still naked from the waist down, his eyes flare with a different kind of hunger.
“Oh, no. No way.” I wag my finger at him. “You have to cook for me first. And then you have to learn a few things.”
I snatch my skirt from the floor and slide it back on before Wyatt can protest.
Once we’re out in the kitchen, I slide up onto a stool at the island and watch as Wyatt maneuvers around the room with ease. I take note as to how certain things are placed—the refrigerator has lower shelves and the stove is at least six inches shorter than the average range. He pulls several bags of vegetables out of the crisper drawer, then slides a knife from the block next to the stove.
“Stir-fry okay with you?” he asks, motioning to the peppers and onions he’s putting on a cutting board. I nod.
“Sounds good.”
I watch as he begins to slice the vegetables and I consider my next question carefully.
“So,” I begin, “did you have to relearn everything? Like, the way you do things. Like cooking and such.”
Wyatt shrugs. “Some things are the same. Tying my boots. Brushing my teeth. Other things take some finesse. Other things are nearly impossible.”
“Like what?” I ask, reaching over to grab a pepper slice. “What kind of things are impossible?”
“Honestly?”
“Of course.”
He gives a sort of self-deprecating smile. “Reaching things. Getting things down from high places. Climbing ladders.”
“Yeah, I can see how that would be difficult.”
Wyatt goes back to chopping, now moving on to mushrooms. I lick my lips, feeling nervous. I’ve wanted to ask Wyatt about walking—or not walking, as it were—ever since the night at the bar when he stood up to face Lennon. Sure, I’d seen him in rehab with Wanda. But this was different. He’d stood on his own. Clearly, he’s capable. I just don’t know why he isn’t doing it more regularly. It’s been one of those things I thought about while Wyatt wasn’t calling me back.
But Wyatt beats me to it.
“I know I need to be getting out of this chair more, but it’s started to feel like a security blanket or something.”
I cock my head, watching as his hands move over the vegetables in an almost rhythm.
“So, you can walk? I mean, you are capable of it?”
He nods. “I can. Not well. I’d need crutches at a minimum. Eventually a cane. Frankly, though, the chances of me falling on my face or my ass or any other which way kind of makes it feel like it isn’t worth it. Not to mention that I can’t drive with a brain injury, so really, what’s the point?”
I frown at him. “But what about playing drums? Have you even tried to play since the accident?”
Wyatt stops chopping and sits back in his wheelchair.
“Yeah, a few times. My buddies put together some hand controls for me and set up my kit so I could do it without feet, like a Rick Allen/Def Leppard kind of setup. Problem was that I just couldn’t feel the music the same way. It all felt foreign. Drumming was my whole life, my whole identity, prior to the accident. After it, I didn’t even know what it was to me anymore. Or who I was without it.”
“I think I understand what you mean,” I say slowly. “I mean, this isn’t exactly the same thing, but my anxiety got so bad that things I loved more than anything, like teaching, became nearly impossible for me. After my first failed attempt at student teaching, I didn’t even want to try anymore.”
“Is that when you started self-medicating?” Wyatt asks.
I nod. “Yeah. First, it was Xanax, which I loved, but it turned me into a total zombie. I decided that I’d rather use something that brought me up, made me happy and free.”
I spread my hands wide on the counter between us and focus in on my chipped nail polish. It’s never easy to talk about this stuff but I feel like I want to. And in some ways, there’s no one I’d rather know me this way than Wyatt. The two of us are damaged and put back together in ways that only another person like us could understand. We are versions of a former self—a split personality that grew from the hurt or anger or negativity that existed there before.
Wyatt goes back to the vegetables, this time scooping them up and throwing them into a black cast-iron pan. He pulls a package of chicken out of the fridge, then turns back to face me.
“Is that what was happening the first time we met?”
I take a sharp breath. I hate having to admit that, but I don’t want to lie to him, either.
“Yeah. The night we met at The Factory was one of my last nights out like that. I’d already flunked out of my semester at grad school and I knew I wouldn’t be graduating. I was hiding my habit from my friends and I was spending far too much time at the bars. That particular night, I’d been at my mom’s, watching her struggle with bills that she mostly ignored, then dote on my brother like he was anything other than a worthless fuckup. I want to be one of those people who says that family comes first, but it’s hard to do that when I have a hard time understanding all of the decisions they make and why.”
I bite my lip, thinking back to those raging emotions and intense reactions from the night we hooked up in the hall outside the bathrooms.
“The night I met you, though? Honestly, I felt something that night that burned right through the drugs and the high and got straight to the core of me. You . . . affected me.”
Wyatt meets my gaze and, for a long second, we just stare at each other. He reaches up to run a hand through his hair.
“That night—I saw Jillian with your brother, her hand in his pants and his mouth on her tits and I almost exploded. Hell, I did explode. Lennon’s face met my fist a handful of times before my buddies pulled me off him.”
He wheels around the island to my side, never taking his eyes off of me.
“But then I left, and when I saw you in that hallway—you looked like sunshine. Like Christmas. Like you were exactly what I needed at that exact moment.”
Wyatt presses the handbrakes down on his chair, then kicks aside the footrests. Slowly, he rocks forward to the edge of the seat, then reaches up a hand. Staring down at him, I take it
, then the other that he offers. With a methodic grace, he rises to standing, still holding both of my hands and balancing one hip against the counter.
“Carson, there isn’t a whole lot that I believe in anymore—but I believe you came into my life when you did for a reason. You were the last good thing in my brain before the accident. And while I didn’t really consider you to be a guardian angel or anything like that, I did remember you—plenty of times—during my recovery.”
He reaches out with one hand and cups my chin. His touch is gentle and I can’t help but marvel at how different Wyatt’s hands can feel—tender at moments like this, but confident and strong in bed. And then there’s those other moments, when he’s tugged my hair or used his teeth on my most sensitive flesh and it’s like my body comes alive at his touch. There’s something about that edge of pain that I can only hope to feel again and again. The independent Carson wants to balk, but the Carson I am deep down? She loves every minute of every time he touches me.
“I thought about you, too,” I admit. “Even after I was clean and long before I knew who you were, I remembered that night at The Factory, even if I didn’t remember you. The way my body responded. How being with you, even briefly, made me feel alive.”
Wyatt swallows hard and I watch his throat work over the motion.
“You were like air to me that night.” He leans in and presses his lips against my jaw, before whispering, “You still are.”
And it’s like a dam bursts within me—or, more accurately, like some sort of wall around my heart crumbles into something like dust. I surge forward with abandon and press my lips to Wyatt’s, coaxing his mouth open and delving my tongue inside. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me into him, tightly, as though holding on to me for dear life, and slides a hand up into my hair, directing my head to one side. Then I let my hands slide up his arms and find purchase on his muscular shoulders as I absorb the onslaught of his kisses.
Wyatt Sands is the kind of man who was born to kiss. His skills are more than just impressive—they are practiced. He’s clearly done this a lot and I don’t even care because he knows exactly how to caress my tongue with his, how to scrape his teeth along my bottom lip. He is a goddamn savant and I get all the benefits.