Chapter 3: First Touch
He laid her on the bed, the sheets cool against her bare shoulders, and stood for a moment just looking, his chest tight. “Your feet are cold,” he murmured, kneeling to cradle one in his hands, rubbing warmth into the arch with a firm, slow thumb. She propped herself on her elbows, watching him, a smile playing on her lips. “I’ll have to take your word for it.” He leaned down and pressed his mouth to her instep, a soft, lingering kiss, and she let out a soft sigh. “That I can feel,” she whispered, “in my spine, like a vibration.”
His hands moved up her calves, mapping the shape of muscle he knew she couldn’t flex, his touch exploratory, reverent. “Tell me what’s okay,” he said, his voice rough. “Anything,” she breathed, lying back. “Just don’t stop.” He found the catheter tube where it emerged from under her skirt, tracing its path with a single fingertip, a question in his touch. “That’s just plumbing,” she said, her tone dismissive, utterly unashamed. “Ignore it.”
He pushed the mini-skirt up slowly, revealing her thighs, the pale skin flawless and still. He bent and kissed the inside of her knee, then higher, his beard brushing her skin. She gasped, her head tilting back. “That,” she said, “is a really good spot.” His fingers found the firm line of her hip bone, the border of her world, and he hesitated. “Here?” he asked, hovering at the edge of her skirt’s waistband. Her eyes locked on his, dark and sure. “Cross the border, John.”