Hidden Hearts

by Olivia Dade

  Her tears spilled over at his raw display of pain, and she didn’t try to fight the tide.

  “It’s all bullshit, Mary, and I hate it.” He dropped his arm to his side, his shoulders slumped. “I want my arm back. I want my life back.”

  This time, when she walked toward him, he pulled her in tightly. So tightly she could barely breathe.

  “I don’t want to feel stupid and clumsy and on display all the time,” he whispered. “But my arm is gone, Mary. It’s gone, and it’s never coming back.”

  She rocked him in her embrace, soothing him as he began to weep.

  Then, without letting him go for a single instant, she led them both back to his bedroom, kicked off her shoes, dimmed the bedside lamp, and got under the covers with Miles. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, a human cradle for his grief. She held him until his wracking sobs diminished and his breathing deepened and slowed. Until he slept in her arms, a welcome, precious weight.

  And then she stared up at his ceiling for hours, waited for morning, and prayed to God that she’d done the right thing.

  14

  For a moment upon waking, Miles didn’t register anything but the warm, soft female body snuggled at his back, breasts pressing against his shoulder blades, legs intertwined with his.

  Mary, he thought sleepily. At last. But why is she wearing pants?

  He really wanted a good morning kiss, so he shifted to roll over. At his first abortive movement, though, her nighttime clothing choices became a lesser concern.

  Had a herd of elephants somehow trampled him in his sleep? His muscles ached, his feet stung, his nose throbbed, and his eyes felt gritty. And he seemed to be wearing a T-shirt and jeans, when he normally slept stark naked.

  Oh, God. Oh, shit.

  She murmured something indecipherable and pressed closer, which helped allay the humiliation of the memories that suddenly flooded his awakening brain. The fall. His trip to urgent care. His text to Mary and subsequent inaccessibility. The rage that had claimed all his bathroom accessories as its victims. His breakdown in front of her and her tender care afterward.

  He let out a slow breath. Yeah, it was humiliating. But she was still there, in his bed. Possibly out of pity, but possibly not.

  Luckily, he had extra bathroom supplies beneath his sink to replace the items he’d destroyed. For instance, a new toothbrush he could use before she woke up. He’d subjected her to plenty the previous night. He didn’t need to add morning breath to that extensive list.

  She barely stirred when he detached himself from her embrace and slid out of bed. No doubt she was exhausted from all her worry and their late-night confrontation, and he wouldn’t wake her for the world. Not even for that long-awaited good morning kiss.

  The room remained dim, morning light peeking out in slivers around the edges of his blinds. But even in the near-dark, her familiar, beloved features almost stopped his battered heart. Her wide forehead, soft mouth, and the sweet curve of her cheek. The shadow of her lashes. Her great, dark eyes, now closed in slumber. Her compact body, soft and strong and nurturing.

  He could love her so easily. Maybe he already did.

  Either way, she deserved fresh breath. So he retreated to his bathroom, closing the door behind himself with an almost-silent click. After using the toilet, he washed his hand, wrestled open a new toothbrush—thank goodness for perforated cardboard—and went to town on his teeth.

  As he brushed, he contemplated the bare surface of the wall in front of him. The mirror would need replacing, he supposed. At the moment, though, he suspected its absence was helping his state of mind. If he could see the full extent of the damage he could only feel right now—the battered nose, the cuts, and everything else he’d brought upon himself—he figured all thoughts of kisses and seduction would cease immediately.

  Although…

  He stopped brushing. This morning, something seemed different. His whole body felt lighter, looser. Weary, yes, but free of the terrible tension that had been his constant companion for months.

  Someone had finally seen and heard it all. His fears, his fury, his history.

  Not just someone. Mary.

  He began brushing again, considering the shift in their relationship.

  She might wake up this morning and flee for the door. But he didn’t think so. Not the Mary he knew. Not the woman who’d spent the night wrapped around him, offering comfort with her body and presence when she could have easily left for her own bed.

  He spat, rinsed his mouth, and carefully placed the toothbrush next to his sink. Then he got out another new package and left it on the counter for her. After a deep breath, he opened the door to his bedroom and his future.

  Time to find out the verdict.

  His eyes went to his bed as soon as he left the bathroom. She wasn’t there anymore, and his heart nearly seized in his chest. But then he saw her standing at his window, peering out into the woods behind his house through his open blinds.

  She didn’t leave. She’s still here with me.

  When he exhaled in relief, she turned and offered a sweet, shy smile. “Good morning.”

  “Morning.” Should he try to kiss her? She didn’t seem put off by him or in a rush to flee, at least not as far as he could tell.

  When he moved toward her, though, she lifted a hand. “I need to make a quick stop first, please.”

  Of course. The morning-breath issue. And she probably needed to pee too.

  “I put an extra toothbrush on the counter. Please feel free to use it.” He cleared his throat, determined to get through what he needed to say. “I know I owe you more than a few toiletries, though. Thank you for coming here last night. And thank you for pushing me to talk about my arm. I think…” He shifted his weight. “I think I needed that. I feel better today. Better than I have in months.”

  “I’m so glad. And relieved.” She directed a singularly beautiful smile his way. “And willing to talk about it more, if you’d like. But first, I could really use a minute.”

  Oh, God, he was stopping her from peeing. “Of course.”

  Just as he began to step out of her way, the current state of his bathroom occurred to him. “Um, I had some issues in there last night.” Wait, that sounded bad. “I mean, not intestinal issues.” And that sounded worse, but she’d see what he meant soon enough. “I’ll be fixing the mirror and other decorations soon, I promise. But the facilities all still work.”

  Her brow creased, but she didn’t question him. She was probably afraid of what he might say, and he didn’t blame her.

  “Okay.” She headed for the bathroom. “I’ll only be a couple of minutes.”

  Once she closed the door behind her, he rolled his eyes at himself. Intestinal issues? What kind of potential lover brought up intestinal issues?

  Whatever. Too late to take it back. Now he needed to decide the next step. Should he get back in bed? Start some toast? Or continue lingering awkwardly near the bathroom, freaking her out when she finally emerged?

  Bed. He wanted that kiss. Maybe a few kisses.

  Hell, he wanted more than kisses. But unless he planned to make love to Mary with his T-shirt on, he had one last, towering hurdle to leap.

  His arm. She’d have to see the amputation site. And this morning, for the first time, he thought maybe he was ready to show it to her.

  Last night had proven a couple of things. Pretending that he was okay, that nothing had really changed in his body and life, hadn’t made him happier. It had only held off his grief for a few months, letting it build until he couldn’t hold back the tide any longer.

  And hiding himself—physically, emotionally—took so much damn energy. Too much for him to offer what she deserved. His full attention. His presence at her side, wherever and whenever she wanted it. His body. His heart.

  So he was done with it. Maybe his body and career would never return to what they’d once been, but that didn’t mean he couldn’
t build a new life. That didn’t mean he couldn’t find a new career. That didn’t mean he couldn’t use his new body and test its limits. For work, for fun, and for pleasure.

  With Mary. Always with Mary.

  He had to trust her. He had to trust himself.

  Removing his shirt seemed to require enormous strength and concentration. Every inch of its ascent over his head took a toll. By the time he tossed it on to the nightstand, he was sweating and panting. But he sat on the bed anyway, propping his back against the wall and stretching his legs out in front of him. The picture of ease, as long as she didn’t look too closely.

  As soon as the bathroom door began to open, he blurted out, “I saw pictures of one dude who turned his residual limb into a dolphin.”

  She stopped just outside the door. And even though she must have realized he was shirtless, she didn’t allow her gaze to leave his face. “An entire dolphin?”

  “Well, just the snout and head.” He shrugged uncomfortably, feeling more naked than he ever had in his life. Including the time in college when he’d streaked through a soccer game. “He used tattoos. It was pretty amazing.”

  “Are you considering tattooing your left arm and making it into a sea mammal?”

  Her eyes, so calm and warmly amused, eased his anxiety. “Probably not.”

  “May I look?” She didn’t make a move toward him or put undue emphasis on the request. From her tone, she could have been asking to see a family photo or the inside of a new car.

  He swallowed over a dry throat. “Yeah. But it’s…not smooth. Or rounded. I don’t know why. I should have asked at the hospital, but I was too overwhelmed.” Too unwilling to acknowledge my missing arm. “I’m more like the dolphin guy than you might think.”

  Her gaze flicked away from him, and he wondered whether she was rethinking her request. Then she gave a little nod and reached for the hem of her shirt.

  “Fair’s fair.” The navy knit fabric cleared her head, and she was suddenly standing before him in her light blue, lacy bra. “Now we both have something to look at.”

  He blinked. Don’t stare at her breasts. Don’t stare at her breasts.

  But hell, hadn’t she given him permission to do just that? And God knew he needed something to distract him from her study of his left arm. So he ceased any pretense of politeness and feasted on the sight of them, smooth and dark and full, curving above the pale fabric of her bra. Studied the way the gold of her locket gleamed against her flesh. Marveled at his undeserved good fortune.

  She was gorgeous. Perfect. And she was climbing on to the bed, her knees brushing the outside of his left leg as she knelt beside him.

  “Is the amputation site particularly sensitive?”

  “No.” He barely considered the answer, too focused on whether he could remove her bra with only one hand. On the fine grain of her skin and how velvety it seemed to his eyes. “Not anymore.”

  “May I touch it?”

  That got his attention. His head snapped up, and he met her steady gaze. He could find no demand or disgust there, only inquiry. Only a desire to bring down the walls between them, once and for all. Touching the amputation site was an act of intimacy greater than handling any other part of his body, including his cock, and she knew it.

  He realized that his head had begun to shake in instinctive refusal, and he forced himself to stop.

  “All right,” he managed to choke out.

  She worried her bottom lip for a moment, and repeated in a whisper, “Fair’s fair.”

  Then he didn’t have to worry anymore about removing her bra, because she’d done it herself. She placed it on his nightstand, her hand trembling.

  That little tremor snapped him out of his self-absorption. He wasn’t the only uncertain one in bed right now. He wasn’t the only one revealing himself in a way that didn’t come easily. Although he certainly didn’t expect Mary to be a virgin, he understood her well enough to guess that she hadn’t offered her nude—or half-nude—body to many men in her life.

  So he echoed her words in an attempt to make her more comfortable. “May I look?”

  She licked her lips and nodded.

  Studying her naked breasts did the trick. He barely noticed as she ran a light fingertip from his shoulder to the new terminus of his arm, as she traced the scars and contours, leaving him no secrets. Nothing to hide in shame.

  Instead, he was attempting not to drool over her generous cleavage and large, deep brown nipples. They started out soft and hardened under his gaze.

  He glanced up. Although she still held his left arm, she wasn’t looking at it anymore. She was watching his face. His hand clenched on his thigh. The restless movement of his legs as he fought the need to touch. To stroke. To satisfy them both.

  She inclined her head a little. “It’s okay. You can touch me.”

  He lifted his hand, and God, he’d never felt anything as good in his life as the weight of her breast cradled in his palm. Never seen anything as beautiful as the arch of her throat when he teased her nipple with his thumb. Never heard anything as welcome as her little, aroused gasp when he rubbed more firmly over the pebbled surface.

  Her own hands were exploring his shoulders, running tentatively down his chest. “You’re so strong,” she whispered. “I knew it, but it’s different to feel it under my fingertips.”

  For months now, he hadn’t regarded his body with an ounce of pride. Not in how it looked or what it could do. But at that moment, fierce exultation roared through every inch of him.

  I can still do this. I can still please a woman.

  Reluctantly, he let go of her breast with one last, lingering stroke of her soft skin. Guiding her with his hand, he urged her to straddle him. He wanted her weight on him, the heat of her against his chest. And most of all, he wanted her within reach of his mouth.

  Her eyes heavy-lidded, she followed his lead.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he told her. “The most glorious woman I’ve ever seen.”

  Her shoulders shifted. “You don’t have to say that.”

  “I know I don’t. Which is why you should believe me.” Leaning forward, he halted a millimeter above the delectable curve where her neck met her shoulder. “I’ve been dreaming of kissing you here.”

  He could hear the smile in her voice. “You already have kissed me there.”

  “You didn’t let me finish.” He was smiling too, letting his lips brush the sensitive skin at the base of her neck. His teeth nibbled gently, tugging on the chain there. He waited for the shiver he wanted. And when he got it, he elaborated. “I dreamed of kissing you here, and then moving downward. I want to worship your breasts, Mary.”

  He opened his mouth against her soft flesh and sucked lightly. She liked that. He knew it from all those amazing, frustrating make-out sessions on his couch. And sure enough, she wiggled a bit on his lap.

  Giving her plenty of time to object, he braced his hand on her back and let his mouth drift lower. Over her locket, down to the curve of her breast. He nuzzled there, entranced by the plush softness against his cheek. Her grip on his shoulders tightened, and she stopped breathing.

  He took her nipple in his mouth. Laved and rubbed it with his tongue, sucking until she arched in his lap with a moan. Then he shifted and did the same to her other nipple, working her patiently and with every ounce of skill he possessed.

  She squeezed his shoulders, her short nails biting into his skin. He loved it, the pain so unlike the agony he’d endured for months. The pain that meant pleasure.

  Finally, she dragged his head back up and claimed him with a ferocity he’d never experienced from her before. Open-mouthed and wild, she buried her fingers in his hair and brought their lips together in a fierce clash of wills and mutual passion. Their tongues battled and their teeth nipped as they devoured one another, their bodies pressed skin-to-skin above the waist.

  When she released her hold and pulled away, they were both pan
ting.

  “Do you…” She cleared her throat. “Do you have, um, protection?”

  Oh, Jesus. They were really going to do this. They were going to make love, just as he’d envisioned in his most fervent daydreams and his most vicious nightmares.

  He could only hope that his nightmares wouldn’t come true. That his first attempt at lovemaking with Mary wouldn’t end in shame and disappointment. That he could please them both in bed, even with a single hand.

  Maybe he could. Maybe he couldn’t.

  But one way or another, he thought, you’re about to find out.

  15

  At Miles’s prolonged silence, Mary’s brows drew together. “Are you okay?”

  For a moment, he couldn’t speak. Her lips were swollen from their kisses, her glorious breasts rising and falling with each breath. While in the bathroom earlier, she’d taken her hair down. It framed her face, tangled in a way that revealed how far they’d taken each other. How passionate they’d been and how passionate they might yet become, if he could silence his doubts.

  He almost told her he was fine. They were fine. Everything was fine. But there was no point in hiding anymore. No point in pretense, not when she’d already seen all of what he was and flinched from none of it.

  “I want to make love with you. So much, Mary. But I’m worried about the mechanics. I might fumble a bit.” He let out a shaky breath. “Please be patient, and I swear I’ll make it good for you.”

  Her shoulders relaxed, and she smiled. “I have no doubt about that. And it’s not as if I have a ton of experience to draw on, either. We’ll fumble through it together.”