Page 15

Hamish

Amy’s draped across my chest like she’s just been drop-kicked by joy and fell straight into the copper bush of my pecs.

I lie flat, one arm wrapped tight around her back, the other slung behind my head. I feel like I’m some kind of sex god reclining in his temple.

Because I am .

The leg brace juts awkwardly off the side of the bed, my foot trying to bow out gracefully from the entire situation. It's a bit cockeyed, but I don't mind.

Bloody hell.

I made her scream. Not for the first time, but this was the best time.

She’s still catching her breath, cheek mashed against my chest, one leg flung over my hip. Her skin’s flushed, hair tangled, lips kiss-bitten. I’ve never seen anyone look more gorgeous or more thoroughly ruined.

And she’s mine .

The thought hits like a tidal wave. Fierce. Territorial. Hot.

But layered under that? Something softer, something quiet.

Relief.

No one wants to admit their weaknesses, and I'm no different in that regard. I was scared, even if I never said it aloud. Scared that between the knee, the brace, the meds, and a rehab schedule that makes prison-yard time look spontaneous, I wouldn’t be able to give her what she needed.

What she deserves.

What she yearns for.

She never asked for it. Never made me feel inadequate. Not once.

But I’m a man. I knew the minute the doctor handed me that surgery timeline that I’d be sleeping flat on my back with an ice pack and a sense of uselessness as my only bedmates. And after I got back here, back in her arms, there was always that question buzzing at the edges:

Can I still be what she wants?

Turns out the answer is yes. Mouth, hands, cock, and all.

And also, apparently, I can make her lose her mind with just my tongue and a well-placed headboard.

“Amy,” I murmur into her hair, kissing her temple, her cheek, the curve of her jaw. “Love. I’m gonna write a thank-you letter ta whoever designed this mattress. Perfect firmness. Great bounce. Excellent arse visibility. Five stars, always recommend.”

She snorts into my chest. “Is that the new five-star scale? Arse visibility?”

“Aye. Five cheeks. Maximum delight.”

She groans and slaps my side, but doesn’t move. "Five cheeks? That's a different species, Hamish. I think you've been watching too many alien movies."

I shift slightly so I can kiss her again, this time slow and deep, with a lazy swirl of tongue and just enough teeth to make her sigh. My hand trails down her back, over the curve of her bum, down her thigh, and back up again. I could trace her body all night and never get bored.

It’s art. Sculpted, alive, and mine .

As I skim her hand, my fingers graze the ring on her left hand. And not by accident.

It’s platinum, knife-edge band, sleek and modern, with a round, brilliant-cut diamond set low in a bezel so it doesn’t catch on anything when she’s getting dressed or running or handling a PR crisis while holding a triple-shot oat milk latte.

Classic but not boring. Strong but graceful.

Just like her.

It catches the soft light of the bedside lamp as I lift her hand to my lips.

“This ring suits ye so much, it’s borderline rude,” I murmur, kissing her knuckle. “Like it was waitin’ in a display case somewhere, just fer yer hand.”

She blinks at me, then smiles slowly. That real smile. The one that breaks me wide open.

“You picked it.”

“Aye. Took twelve shops, a fight with a diamond guy in Hatton Garden, and Mum’s screamin’ voice on WhatsApp, but I got it right.”

“You got it perfect.”

She stretches up to kiss me, warm and lingering.

"I am sorry, though, I had nae family heirloom to propose wi’. The Scottish McCormicks are skint. Da proposed to Mum wi’ an ice cream and a promise of better later. She jokes that she got eight bairns instead o' a ring."

"I love what you gave me, but you could have given me an ice cream, instead."

"Does that mean ye’ll pop out eight bairns for me, too?"

"Let's start with one. Eventually."

“Ye ken, ye’ve got the most distractin’ wee nipples I’ve ever seen?” I whisper, nosing along her collarbone. “Like wee crowns, beggin’ for attention.”

“Did you just call my nipples royalty ?”

“They command respect, hen.”

Her laugh buzzes against my chest and settles somewhere behind my ribs. I kiss her again, tasting the salt on her skin, the lingering sweetness of her earlier release, and I realize I’m hard again.

Not subtly, not gently.

Properly.

Full-staff. Ready for inspection.

My hand slips between us and finds her thigh, warm and damp and already twitching with interest.

I look down at her.

Her eyes flutter open, glazed and gorgeous.

“Round two?” I ask, voice low, hopeful. “Or would that be pushin’ ma luck?”

She laughs. “Hamish, you’re already pushing.”

“Can’t help it, love. Ye’re naked an’ gleamin’. Ye’re a goddess just descended ta earth ta ride me like a carnival ride.”

“Wow. Poetry.”

“I could write a sonnet about yer arse, Amy Jacoby.”

“What rhymes with buttocks? Naughty clucks?”

She cups my cheek, thumb brushing over my stubble.

“You sure you’re up for it?”

I grin.

“ Up is the problem, hen,” I murmur, hands already sliding back down to her hips, hard as a battering ram and more than ready for Round Two.

She grins and leans down to kiss me, eyes still heavy-lidded from the first go, her hair a glorious tangle of flaming red sex and sweat and satisfaction.

Then—

BUZZZZZZZZZZZ

Amy screams.

I jump.

My leg twitches.

“Shite!” I yelp, clapping a hand over my brace as pain zings through the joint like I’ve been struck by horny lightning.

Amy bolts upright, eyes wide. “The door!”

“If that’s yer mum, she’s got the worst bloody timing in the Western Hemisphere.”

She’s already scrambling off the bed, grabbing the first thing she can find—my grey hoodie–from the floor, yanking it over her head in a blur of panicked cotton.

It hangs halfway down her thighs. Then she one-legged-hops into a pair of joggers and half-ties the drawstring like it’s a timed obstacle course.

“I swear, if that’s another wedding planner cold-pitching me on ethically sourced chair covers, we’re eloping.”

She vanishes into the living room. I hear the buzz again, followed by a short crackle as she presses the button on the intercom mounted on the wall by the door. Old-school system. Brass button. Voice like someone yelling through a soup can.

Amy: “Hello?”

Delivery person: “Package for Amy Jacoby.”

Amy: “Can you just leave it in the foyer?”

Delivery person: “It’s perishable, ma’am. Signature required.”

Amy groans. “Coming down.”

I scooch myself upright and lean back against the headboard, shifting my leg, which is now extremely grumpy about being cock-blocked. I hear her unlocking and opening the door, grousing about bra-less dignity and how this had better not be monogrammed bamboo cocktail napkins.

Three minutes later, she’s back, the door slamming shut.

“It’s a box,” she calls. “It’s huge!”

I picture her, hoodie askew, hauling some industrial-sized crate up the staircase, like a deranged porch pirate.

Makes me feel inadequate.

A month ago, I’d have carried it up for her with ease. That’s my job. I lift and move and haul and do all the heavy things Amy can’t.

Except now, I can’t.

My erection decides to abandon me.

Whatever’s in that box better be worth it.

But I highly doubt that.

And that’s when I decide, in a fit of utterly misplaced masculine pride, that I need to get up. Right now. As if standing shirtless in my fiancée’s flat wearing a medieval torture device while a mystery crate enters our lives, is somehow a task I’m prepared for.

Step one: Put on boxer briefs. Simple.

Unless you’re me.

Lying flat in bed with a brace from hip to ankle that’s more restrictive than my mother’s view on premarital cohabitation.

I start by rolling to the side like a sea lion attempting interpretive dance. The brace hits the edge of the mattress and I get briefly wedged, halfway between dignity and death.

I fling my good leg over and push upright, using my abs and exactly zero grace.

Now I’m sitting.

The underwear is on the floor, but far away. It might as well be in Worcester.

I scoot, slowly, dragging my braced leg along like a corpse I can’t emotionally detach from. Every movement is accompanied by a symphony of velcro creaks, knee clicks, and the occasional low groan from me that sounds like I’m about to deliver twins out my own butthole.

I reach the boxer briefs.

They are inside out.

I sigh the sigh of a man who has made poor choices.

After righting them with one hand and my teeth, I begin the one-legged entry process. My right leg cooperates. Smooth, efficient. A dream.

The left leg—the one in the brace—refuses to play along. I try to angle my foot in. No luck. I try to bend slightly. The brace laughs at me. I consider just tucking the waistband around the brace, but even I have standards.

So I get creative.

Shuffling back to the bed, I lie back. I hold the underwear open in the air like a bullfighter preparing to duel his own pride. I point my toe. I launch .

And miss.

I try again.

Toe goes through the leg hole... and the waistband snaps back.

Right into my testicles.

I collapse. Whispering curses. Seeing stars. Possibly dying.

But I persevere.

Eventually, red-faced, sweaty, and with a newfound respect for every yoga instructor on the planet, I manage to hoist the boxer briefs into place. It takes wall leverage, a three-point turn, and the accidental destruction of Amy’s decorative throw pillow, which I might have cursed.

When I finally stand upright, I look like a half-naked gladiator who lost the fight but somehow kept his pants.

As I hobble toward the living room, I vow: If this box isn’t from God himself, filled with chocolate and divine purpose, I’m throwing it off the fire escape.

Amy is red-faced, wild-haired, and dragging a box the size of a Labrador with a massive red satin bow on top.

“Hold it flat and steady, he said,” she pants. “Like I was transporting uranium.”