Page 82 of Vital Signs
“I don’t want you to hurt yourself, Des.”
“That’s not what I asked you. Do you want this?”
“Yes,” I breathed, using all of my self-control not to push back on him. “Of course, I do.” Precum smeared across my skin as he gripped the base, rubbing the head along my slit. I could feel the slight tremor in his hips, the effort it took to hold steady, and it only made my concern deepen.
“Is everything secure?” I asked breathlessly, even as I pushed back against him, craving the stretch. “Desmond, please?—”
He thrust forward suddenly, the tip breaching me in one firm push, silencing my words with a sharp cry. “God, yes,” he groaned, inching deeper, his hand on my hip pulling me onto him.
It was clumsy at first — the angle off by a fraction, his prosthetic scraping the cabinet below as he adjusted. But the fullness of him, the way his cock throbbed inside my pussy, overrode everything. He paused halfway, his forehead dropping to my shoulder as he caught his breath.
“Talk later,” he panted, starting to move with shallow rocks of his hips. Each drag pulled at my walls, sending sparks up my spine. His free hand roamed up to squeeze my breast through my top, pinching the nipple until I whimpered. “So wet for me already. You want this as badly as I do.”
I nodded, words failing as pleasure built, but I managed a soft, “Just... be careful with your weight.” My body betrayed me, clenching around him, drawing him deeper. The sink dug into mystomach with every thrust, water splashing as my elbow nudged the faucet. He was desperate now, thrusts growing harder, more insistent, his good leg planted firm while the prosthetic held just enough to keep him upright.
“Fuck careful,” he growled, his fingers finding my clit, rubbing in tight circles that made my knees buckle. “I need to feel you come around my cock, Anya. Need to fill you up.” The awkwardness lingered — a hitch here, a pause to rebalance there — but it fueled the intensity, making every slide feel earned, raw.
Sweat slicked our skin, the kitchen filling with the wet sounds of him pounding into me. I turned my head, capturing his lips in a messy kiss, tasting his urgency. “Des — oh god, yes,” I gasped, the coil in my core tightening unbearably. “More.”
“Come on, doc,” he urged, voice breaking as he chased his own release. His thrusts stuttered, the prosthetic protesting with a faint click, but he didn't stop. One hand braced on the counter beside mine, the other working my clit relentlessly. The pressure shattered me — my pussy pulsing around him, orgasm ripping through me in waves as I cried out, body shaking.
He followed with a guttural moan, slamming deep one last time, cum spilling hot inside me. We slumped together, his weight partially on me, breaths ragged. Slowly, he pulled out, a mix of our fluids trickling down my thigh. “Better?” I murmured, turning in his arms despite the ache in my legs.
Desmond kissed my shoulder, his hand stroking my side gently now. "Muchbetter than cowgirl," he murmured, a tired smile in his voice.
Chapter 47
Desmond
The handrail didn’t move.
I’d made sure of that — measured, drilled, and reinforced until it was more solid than anything else in the house. It held when I pulled against it now, steady and unyielding beneath my grip, a fixed point in a body that still felt like it was negotiating terms with itself.
Morning light stretched across the floor in long, pale strips, catching on the edge of the counter, the legs of the barstools, the place where tile met hardwood just a few feet ahead of me.
I’d crossed this threshold a hundred times in the last week. The prosthetic landed cleanly. My body followed, smoother this time, less correction needed, less conscious effort. It wasn’t perfect, but it was close enough that something in my chest loosened.
Better.Yes. I was getting better.
Behind me, I could feel her attention without turning — Anya, quiet but present, leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee she’d barely touched, watching in that careful way she’d learned to do. Not hovering. Not interfering.
But always there.
I took another step. The rhythm came easier when I didn’t overthink it, when I let muscle memory — new as it was — take over instead of dissecting every movement like a procedure.
I reached the edge of the kitchen.
Stopped.
Shifted.
Turned.
My gaze flicked up for half a second, catching on her — on the way the morning light hit her hair, the soft curve of her mouth around the rim of the mug, the familiar ease of her in my space.
A week ago, I’d had her right there, pressed back against that counter, my breath catching against her neck like nothing had ever changed between us, like my body hadn’t been rewritten from the ground up.
Like I hadn’t lost anything.
