Page 70 of Vital Signs
I chuckled, the sound surprising me — low and genuine, cutting through the heaviness in my chest. “Oh, great. Now I feel like I’m in one of those medical trials. Subject: Can the old man still get it up?”
Her laugh was soft, breathy, vibrating against my skin as she nuzzled closer. “See? There’s the doctor humor I signed up for. And for the record, I’m betting on a positive outcome. No medical intervention required.”
The joke eased something tight inside me, turning the insecurity into something we could share instead of something that isolated me. I pulled her in, my hand cupping the back of her neck, and kissed her properly — slow, deep, tasting the faint salt of her lips from the longday. She responded immediately, her mouth opening under mine, her tongue sliding against mine in a lazy rhythm that made heat pool low in my gut.
We broke apart only when breathing became necessary, and she straddled my lap with careful grace, her thighs bracketing my hips. The position put her weight on my good leg and the mattress, not pressing on the residual limb that ended just below my knee. She knew without asking; her body attuned to mine in ways that went beyond words. Her hands framed my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks as she studied me.
“You’re beautiful,” I said, the words slipping out unfiltered. My hands roamed up her sides, slipping under her shirt to feel the warmth of her skin, the curve of her waist. She arched into my touch, her breath hitching.
“So are you,” she replied, her voice husky. She tugged at my shirt, and I helped her pull it off; the cool air raising goosebumps on my chest. Her eyes roamed over me — not clinically, not pitying, but with hunger. Hunger, I thought I might never deserve again.
She leaned down, kissing my collarbone, then lower, her lips trailing over my pecs, tongue flicking out to tease a nipple. I groaned, my fingers threading into her hair, holding her there as sparks of pleasure shot through me.
She worked her way down, untying the knot on my pajama pants with steady fingers, but I caught her wrist gently. “Wait,” I said, my heart pounding. “I don’t want this to be... I don’t want you taking care of me like I’m broken.”
Anya paused, her gaze lifting to mine, serious now. “This isn’t ‘care’ like that. This is us. Equal. The way we’ve always been. You’re not my patient, and I’m not your doctor. I want to feel you inside me, Desmond. If that’s what you want too.”
Her words washed away the last of my hesitation. I nodded, pulling her back up for another kiss, fiercer this time. She stripped off her own shirt, revealing herself to me, and I couldn’t resist palming her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they hardened. Shemoaned into my mouth, grinding down against the growing bulge in my pants.
“See?” she whispered against my lips, a teasing edge to her voice. “No medical intervention needed.”
I laughed again, the sound muffled as I kissed her neck. “Miracle of modern medicine. Or maybe it’s just you.”
She helped me out of my pants, careful around the dressings but not dwelling there. My cock sprang free, hard and aching now, and her hand wrapped around it, stroking slowly from base to tip. The sensation was electric, drawing a hiss from me. “God, Anya...”
She smiled, shedding the rest of her clothes — pants, panties — until she was bare above me, her skin flushed and inviting. Straddling me again, she positioned herself, guiding my cock to her entrance. She was wet, slick heat enveloping the head as she sank down inch by inch, her pussy stretching around me in that perfect, tight grip. “You don’t have to do anything,” her breath was warm against my neck. “Just be here with me,please.”
We both stilled when she was fully seated, her hands on my shoulders for balance, my hands on her hips. She rocked gently, a slow roll that made us both gasp. “You feel so good,” she breathed, starting to move — up and down, unhurried, her breasts bouncing softly with each descent. “‘Scalpel’ if it’s too much, Des.”
I nodded as I thrust up to meet her, careful with my leverage. It was awkward at first, having to compensate, having to adjust the angle to meet her movements. Her walls clenched around my cock, pulling me in, and I watched her face — eyes half-lidded, lips parted — as pleasure built between us. My hands roamed her body, squeezing her ass, tracing the dip of her spine, urging her on without rushing.
The rhythm stayed languid, intimate; her body rocking on my lap like waves on a calm sea. Sweat beaded on her skin, and I leaned up to lick it from her throat, tasting salt and her. “I love you, Anya,” I murmured, the words raw and true, born from this vulnerability we shared.
“Desmond,” she gasped, her pace quickening just a fraction as she chased her release. Her pussy fluttered around me, and I felt my own building, coiling tight in my core. With a lazy press of my thumb against her clit, she came first, crying out softly, her nails digging into my shoulders as she shuddered, coating my cock.
That pushed me over, and I followed with a groan, thrusting up hard as I spilled inside her, pulse after pulse of cum filling her warmth. We clung together, breathing ragged, her forehead resting against mine as the aftershocks faded.
In the quiet that followed, with her still on my lap, our bodies joined, the bed didn’t feel so vast anymore. It felt like home — like us, remapped but whole.
Chapter 42
Anya
Icame home smelling of antiseptic and burnt coffee, shoulders buzzing with that hollowed-out alertness that only a night shift gives you. The sun was already up. I kicked off my shoes quietly, as if the house itself might scold me for being awake at the wrong hour.
Desmond was still asleep.
I paused in the doorway to his bedroom longer than I meant to. He was on his back, one arm thrown crookedly above his head, hair a mess against the pillow. There was a new stillness to him when he slept now, as if his body had learned to guard itself even in rest. I hated that I noticed it. I hated that I catalogued it automatically, the way I did patients.
I didn’t wake him. PT was early, but notthatearly. The therapist would handle the brutality of the morning; my job was preparation.
I showered fast, lukewarm water, scrubbing the hospital off my skin. I dressed in soft clothes I could move in — leggings, an old sweatshirt — nothing that looked like work, nothing that pretended this was normal. I braided my hair back with hands that shook morethan I wanted to admit. Fatigue made everything slippery, emotions included.
I should have stayed upright. Should have kept moving, kept myself useful, kept the morning from noticing me. Instead, I went back into the bedroom and closed the door behind me with my heel, quiet as a secret.
Desmond was half-awake now, the way he’d been since the injury — never fully gone, always hovering near the surface. His eyes opened when the mattress dipped, unfocused at first, then finding me. There was a flicker of surprise there, followed by something softer, almost wary, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed this.
“I’ve got a few minutes,” I said, already peeling the sweatshirt off again. I didn’t ask. If I asked, he would say no out of habit. I climbed in anyway, cold sheets, warm body, fitting myself against him with the familiarity of someone who had already learned the shape of his breathing. I tucked my face into his shoulder and exhaled as if I’d been holding it all night.
