Page 24

Chapter Twenty-Four

A t first, I think it’s a dream. Wyatt’s fingers sweep my hair from my face before moving to my arm, painting it with a soft touch that lulls me into a deeper dream.

But this isn’t a dream. This is real. He’s here, in my bed. And his hair is wet as if he just stepped out of the shower. I force my eyelids open for proof and am hit with the faint outline of his jaw. His lip tips up, the room softly lit from the bathroom light through the cracked door.

“Hi,” he whispers.

“ Mmm ,” I moan, wanting to shift to my side.

“Here, let me help,” he says, moving the bolster pillow from under my knees to between them so I can lie straight on my side.

I can’t do it for long, but I can long enough. His hand moves to my face, brushing my hair away again before his thumb traces along my cheekbone, down my jaw, and over my lips.

“It’s still nighttime. Go back to sleep. I wanted to be here when you woke up,” he says, pressing his lips to my forehead and holding them there.

“You were here when I woke up. Now I’m awake,” I muse.

“ Shh , no you’re not. This is a dream. Go back to sleep.”

Wyatt’s soft chuckle draws me deep into his chest. I ball my hands up against his heart, my left hand holding my right. I’ve learned to let the left lead.

“I can’t believe I didn’t hear you shower,” I say, breathing him in. He smells like the lavender soap my mom put in the guest bathroom, and his hair is soaking the pillow.

“I tried to be sneaky.”

“You are very sneaky,” I respond. “Now, play “Sandman.””

My nose grazes along his neck as he breathes out a quiet laugh in response to my latest nickname.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s yes, Cheerleader,” I correct. I never stopped being one.

His lips kiss my forehead again.

“Yes, Cheer Captain,” he says, one-upping my request. I smile against his body, glad he slipped into my bed without a shirt on so I can taste his skin with my kiss.

“I’m not very good at lullabies.” His fingers weave into my hair, the massage to my scalp making my eyes fall shut again. He’s right. He’s a terrible singer.

“Then, do what you’re good at,” I hum, already drifting thanks to his warmth and touch.

His body shifts a little, and I feel the heat from his breath at my ear.

“I’m good at this,” he says, his tongue peeking out to sample a taste of my earlobe. His teeth nip at it next, and a shower of goose bumps trails down my neck all the way to my toes.

“You are,” I sigh out, my eyes heavy but not so drowsy that I’m willing to turn any of this down.

My breath hitches when his palm slips under my T-shirt, and his cool fingers walk up my ribcage until his hand curves along my breast. I moan softly as his thumb rubs over my nipple. His mouth shifts to mine, his lips closing around my bottom one and sucking it in. His teeth graze along my skin as he brings his finger to his thumb under my shirt and rolls my nipple into a hard pebble.

“Sandman,” I say, my voice dreamy, my lips a drunken smile.

Wyatt kisses my chin, trailing along my jaw, until his mouth stops at my ear again.

“Roll over,” he says, his hand shifting to my hip, ready to help me.

I move to my back, bracing myself on my right shoulder as Wyatt adjusts the body pillow for me again. He swoops my shirt up my body, helping me slide my arms out one at a time before nestling my head into the pillow as he holds my back against his chest. He’s so warm, and I can feel his cock pressing against my ass through his boxers.

“Close your eyes and go to sleep,” he says, surely knowing that won’t happen. I listen to him anyhow, shutting my eyes so I can’t see what’s coming.

I revel in the foreplay as his right arm curls around my body and his palm covers my left breast. His fingers graze along the hard peak, his touch featherlight, teasing me into a precious ache. If I had the strength to push my breast into his hand, I would. I can, however, press my ass into his cock, so I torture him just as he is me until his fingers pull my nipple into a raw bud as he grinds into me from behind.

“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” he utters, his voice quiet but heavy at my ear.

“I am sleeping,” I lie. He presses into me again, pulling on my nipple until I gasp.

“Liar.”

A quiet giggle escapes my mouth.

Wyatt continues to tease my breasts, at one point rolling both nipples between his fingers and thumbs then pulling them away from my body and letting his fingers snap with the pinch. I love the sting and instantly want more.

His right hand goes back to the tender touch, his thumb grazing the raw pink skin while his left palm inches down my body, pausing at the waistband of my cotton boxers. A low growl leaves his mouth as he presses his lips into the back of my neck.

“Fucking love this new fashion of yours,” he says, his hand slipping into the shorts and trailing between my legs until his fingers slide through my wet, swollen pussy. I bring both of my fists to my mouth, stifling the cry I have to let out.

“You talk in your sleep,” he says, continuing to rub his palm between my legs while his other hand kneads my breast.

“Uh huh.” My voice is faint. Those are the only sounds I’m capable of.

I want him to push inside of me so badly, but also, the long, teasing strokes are almost better. My breath starts to match his rhythm, my chest filling with a deep inhale as his fingers rub against me, then I slowly exhale as he threatens to pull his hand away. His touch, however, never leaves. I’m not sure if he teases my pussy for minutes or hours. I’m not even sure if I dream throughout it. But eventually, it all becomes too much, and I clench my thighs around his hand, trapping him to me as his finger flicks my swollen clit and I break out into shivers and my body convulses with the best orgasm of my life.

“Now, go to sleep, or I’m going to take my hand away,” he scolds, teasingly.

I move my hand down to cover his, pressing his palm into me, wanting to feel him against my still throbbing pussy. I could easily come again right now. In fact, I might. I may come all night. But first, I better get to sleep so he doesn’t make good on that threat.

I awaken to the smell of bacon, and it pulls me out of the best dream. Wyatt and I were swimming in the ocean somewhere, laughing. We raced, and naturally, I was winning before this heavenly scent woke me up.

“Breakfast in bed. Full day ahead, so fuel up,” Wyatt says, sliding the tray over my legs and sitting on the side of the bed next to me.

I rub the sleep from my eyes then pick up a crispy piece of bacon. I can tell Wyatt made this for me. It’s his standard fare, lots of meat and scrambled eggs.

“Good?” he prompts.

“ Mmm hmm ,” I say, nodding and chewing.

My body aches, reminding me of my interrupted slumber last night. It pulls a smirk to my lips, and my cheeks warm with a blush. I tuck my chin and inhale the scent of Wyatt’s shirt. He put it on me at some point last night. I’ll wear it all day so I can remember everything.

“I let you sleep until nine. I figured that was only fair,” he says, leaning into me and pressing a kiss to my cheek.

“ Mmm , since it was your fault I was up late, yeah. That seems fair.” I stuff another piece of bacon into my mouth and crunch down with extra bite as he glowers at me teasingly.

“Next time I’ll let you sleep.”

My mouth falls agape.

“Don’t you dare!”

His mouth tightens into a sinister grin—dimples and all. I’m so far gone for this man.

He snags a piece of bacon for himself, and I try to swat his hand away, but he gets up from the bed before I can.

“You have fifteen minutes to get to the arena. Your mom is getting Otis ready.”

Shoot, fifteen minutes used to feel like a lot, but now it sometimes takes me that long to get to the front door. Heeding his warning, I shovel a few more bites of egg into my mouth, then nudge the tray in his direction so he can move it to the dresser.

I push my blanket down my legs and twist so I can sit with my legs hanging off the side. My walker is near the bed, so I use it to brace myself as I attempt to stand. Wyatt hovers close by, and I can see him gesturing to help me in my periphery.

“I’ll call an audible if I need you,” I say, putting it in language he can understand. I did the same thing with my dad. Wyatt laughs.

“Fair.”

I wrap my wrists into the straps I’ve started using to help me get a better grip on the walker. It keeps my hands from getting tired. Grip strength is a new goal for me. It takes me a few seconds to situate myself to a decent standing position before making my way to the dresser, where my mom has put most of my clothes into the top two drawers. I pull out a soft sports bra and a clean pair of undies, along with some loose joggers. I could spend a few minutes working my shirt off myself, but since it’s Wyatt in here and nobody else, I look him in the eyes and nod.

“The thing about audibles is they’re usually audible,” he teases.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want to shout, ‘come strip me’ in case my dad’s close by.”

Wyatt’s mouth forms an O and he’s at my side in half a second. He’s gentle, taking his time to pull his T-shirt over my head, and though his gaze lingers on my bare breasts, he shows restraint in touching them. I’m a little disappointed, but also, my fifteen minutes is dwindling. There’s time for that later.

Once my bra is on and the shirt is back over my head, Wyatt helps me balance myself as I shimmy out of my shorts. Again, his eyes scan the length of my body, and he bites the tip of his tongue at the sight of my bare ass.

“You should see the front,” I tease, stepping into my cotton panties one foot at a time.

“Fucking hell, that’s not fair,” he groans.

It feels nice to be seen that way, as something sexy. I’ve struggled a lot with my self-esteem the last few days. Not that I need to feel beautiful, but I do need to feel seen. Wyatt gave me that last night. And just now.

Once I’m dressed, shoes on my feet and my leg brace in place to shock my nerves and muscles into the right routine, Wyatt helps me navigate the hallway into the living room. It’s empty, which means my father probably went to the high school this morning to make up for how much time he’s missed with his players, and Grampa is probably at an appointment with my grandma. Wyatt gets the front door for me, and I slowly drag myself through it, staring at the temporary ramp my mom put in to make it easier for me to get up and down the few steps that lead to our driveway.

“Wow,” Wyatt says as he walks beside me along my parents’ ridiculously expansive driveway.

“Don’t gawk,” I say, frustration building in my stomach. I get that this feels impressive to him. I admit that it is impressive—that I’ve come this far and have gotten this strong. But I want to run. And this . . . it isn’t running.

“Wouldn’t dare,” Wyatt says.

I swallow down that guilty feeling I get whenever I snap at someone. I open my mouth to apologize, but when I meet his eyes, he shakes his head and utters, “Don’t.”

I bite my lower lip and nod, focusing instead on the pathway ahead. Getting on the horse is the easy part of this. It’s the trek over various terrains to make my way to the barn that’s the biggest challenge. I’m sure we’ve gone over the fifteen-minute mark, but I’ve definitely gotten faster. My leg feels steadier, too. I can tell that the exoskeleton is working to improve my sense of balance, but I’m not na?ve enough to think I don’t need this walker.

My mom pulls Otis out as we step into the dirt near the barn. He’s our oldest horse, practically an uncle to me at this point. I grew up with him, and his gentle soul seems to be exactly what my heart and body need to heal.

“You ready?” My mom holds the reins out for me to take.

“Yes,” I say, glancing to Wyatt for help. “Just sort of spot me. You’ll know where I need you most.”

“Okay.”

I take the reins in my left hand and brace my body weight on the walker with my right hand. It takes a few attempts for me to shift my body so I’m facing Otis’s side. I grip the saddle as my mom pulls the walker out of the way, and my focus drops to the stirrup.

“Take your time,” my mom says.

Quit racing yourself.

“Can she pull herself up?” Wyatt mutters his question to my mom, probably not wanting to break my concentration, but it still pokes at my pride that he asks her when I’m right here.

“Yes, she can,” I respond. I take in a deep breath, then add, “Sort of.”

“Do you want Wyatt to do it? Or me?” My mom wants me to want Wyatt to do it, probably because I’ve been a little snippy. She’s right. He’s trying to help. And I want him to see me do this. He needs to. For me, and for him.

“Wy, can you help place my right foot in the stirrup?” My gaze flits to him for a second, and I catch the brief panic that widens his eyes and opens his mouth. It kind of fires me up, makes me want to show off a little, which is good, because I’m going to need every ounce of upper body strength I’ve got.

Wyatt moves one hand under my knee, lifting my leg to waist high before taking my foot in his other hand. His mouth is pulled tight with concentration, and it takes him a few seconds to figure out how to maneuver my foot into the stirrup. I fight the urge to hop on my left leg. I know better now. I tried that last time and fell on my ass. Instead, I give myself a moment to feel all the places I’m connected to a base—the ground under my left foot, the stirrup on my right, even if it feels strange, and Otis, my wall directly in front of me.

“You ready, boy?” I run my palm along his body, and he dips his snout, tucking his head enough to see me. He loves me.

“I’m right here. Wyatt’s got your leg.” My mom steps into the left side of my body, her hands bracing my lateral muscles and my upper back while Wyatt’s hands move back to my right foot and my right thigh.

“On three,” I say.

“One. Two. Three!” I grunt the final number out and pull up on the handles my mom fashioned on Otis’s saddle. The straps wrapped around my left hand dig into my skin, and my right arm shakes from the weight of my body. I don’t quit, though. The more it strains my healthy muscles, the harder I work to climb higher. My mom helps with a small boost under my left thigh, and finally, after what feels like several long minutes, I’m high enough to swing my left leg over and embrace Otis from the saddle.

“Good boy,” I say, rubbing his neck and falling forward to kiss this beautiful animal. My eyes tear up, just like they did yesterday.

“Good boy,” I repeat, feeling the warmth of Otis’s neck and the flex of his muscles under my chest and hands as I hug him.

“Wyatt, you want to drive?” My mom holds the reins out for my boyfriend, his smile a work of wonder. I can see the pride etched into the creases at the sides of his eyes, and I know he’s fighting off happy tears, too.

“You can cry a little if you want to,” I say, maybe teasing him a little but mostly giving him permission to feel. This is big. I’ve done this twice now, and this time? It was easier. As hard as it was to get up here, it was easier.

“Ha, yeah. Maybe a little,” he admits, running his forearm over his eyes as he sniffles away his reaction.

He takes the reins from my mom, who walks alongside him in case something goes wrong. Otis is the horse my mom uses for her most delicate clients. He is also the horse of choice for all the autism families who come here. He has a way of bringing out joy. And as he takes long, slow steps across the dirt pathway that leads to the arena, he gives that joy to me.

“Is this right?” Wyatt glances over his shoulder to my mom, his eyes locked in an open position, his body rigid. It’s funny, because for a man who flings his body into other men and into the air just to move a ball a few yards, he’s being awfully cautious.

“It’s perfect, Wyatt. You can go a little faster,” my mom says.

Wyatt’s eyes flit to me, and I smile and nod.

“I’m comfortable. And Otis doesn’t really run anymore.” I don’t run so much anymore, either, Otis.

Wyatt picks up the pace a bit, and we make loops and figure eights around the arena, the warm Arizona sun stinging my cheeks with welcome heat. Otis’s tail flaps at flies, and the ends tickle my legs—both of them. I’ve started noting everything I feel, like a mental journal or list for me to appreciate. There are still things that don’t quite feel right when I encounter them, like certain motions and pressure against my bones. But I get hints of my old self coming back. I miss her. I can’t wait to blend her with this new version of myself. She’s stronger.

She can do anything.