Page 30 of Warrior's Walk

West snorts. “Says who? You’re totally a dick.” He shakes his head and turns his attention to Rhett. “West Wardell, retired Army. This is my partner, boyfriend, whatever you call it,” he taps Brandt’s shoulder. “I hope you stick around. This place is good for you.”

Sommers grins. “I’m Nash. Retired Army and recovering addict. I don’t ride, I don’t drink, and I don’t knit well, but I can bitch like a pro, apparently.”

Pharo is absent today, and I’m pretty sure he’s deployed, so it’s back to Rhett again. “Nice to meet you all. I just got one question. What the fuck is this group and why am I here?”

My snicker draws several more. “Welcome to the Bitches With Stitches. We’re a support group for vets with trauma. And… we knit. It’s therapeutic.”

Rhett looks around the circle at the huge battle-scarred and inked vets, some of them missing limbs, all of them holding knitting needles and yarn. He shrugs. “Cool. I’m into origami, so why not knitting too? but I gotta be honest, I’m not much of a sharer. I’m just followin’ Mandy around ’cause he’s my ride home.”

He handles his introduction better than some have, and I’m glad he’s giving it a chance instead of running for the door. He’ll come around in time and become a regular old Bitch like the rest of us.

If anyone needs to share with the group, it’s Rhett. He’s got fresh trauma and I’m sure he intends to bottle it up and stuff itdown deep until it shreds him apart from the inside like cut glass shards.

As the guys take turns sharing about their week, I can feel his eyes on me, but I dare not look. Not until it’s his turn again.

“I don’t have much to say, just that I’m grateful to Riggs for—well, everythin’. Everythin’ I have, even my life, is because of him. I only wish there was some way I could return the favor.”

His stare lingers, burning hot through me, and I have no doubt he wants to return the favor. Preferably while we’re both naked.

Fuck, if I had a chance to get my dick inside him, hell, it would probably be physically impossible for me to pull out. It’d be too good, too tight and hot and perfect. I’d fuck him up so damn good.

A wave of heat rolls through my belly and I swallow hard, feeling slightly uncomfortable with his eyes still pegging me so intensely.

Why, God? Why him? Why Rhett Butler Marsh, the gorgeous flirt with the silly name, the vet with too much fresh trauma, both physically and mentally? Of all the guys to break my dry spell, why can’t it be someone easy? Someone I’d allow myself to have? Why does it have to be him?

Rhett is like my kryptonite. He’s poison in my blood. He weakens me, brings forth all my fears and insecurities, and makes me doubt my instincts. He’s the bad choice you make when you’re drunk and your inhibitions are low. The one that you regret in the morning. The guy you don’t bring home to meet your mother. The guy’s not made for promises and plans and declarations, which is ironic considering his mother named him after an icon of romance.

Rhett Marsh is a one-night stand, a bad boy good for only one night. He’s dangerous to me, and I plan to stay far away and heed all the red flags.

Using my crutches,I hop into the bathroom, set my phone on the counter, and reach into the stall to turn on the water. It takes a minute to warm up and I wait so I can adjust it to scalding; just how I like it, melting the skin off my bones. There are times now when I can hobble along without the crutches, like from my bedroom to the kitchen, or when I’m sitting on the couch and I need to run to the bathroom. But after the intense workout I had today, there’s no way I can manage.

My knee throbs, punctuated by white-hot daggers of pain, with each step I take. My hip aches from my uneven gate and the twinge of pain in my lower back reminds me it’s time for my meds. I’ll wait until after my shower so I can take them with food.

When the glass stall fills with steam, I strip out of my clothes, lean my crutches against the wall, and step under the scorching spray. I’m cheating, leaning heavily on the back of my safety chair instead of sitting, but I can’t wash my ass if I’m sitting on it.

I slide my soapy hand between my cheeks, brushing my fingers through the fuzz surrounding my hole. Bearing down, the tip of my finger breaches my rim and I sigh with pleasure.

Been too long since I fingered my ass.

My workouts at BALLS leave me feeling exhausted by the end of the day, and once I plop down on my cushy new couch and relax, it’s lights out. I’ve fallen asleep there the past two nights.

Fuck it, I need this.

Sitting down in my chair, I spread my knees and glide my soapy hand up and down my shaft, getting it sudsy and slippery before cupping my balls. The weight of them feels good in my palm and I give them a couple of satisfying tugs before returning to my shaft.

With the aid of the soap, I can feel every engorged vein squish under my fingers. My wrist twists over the crown and I sigh again, tilting my head back under the hot spray. Say what you want about medical equipment, but this shit right here is the fucking pinnacle of life. A warm head massage from the shower spray while jacking off and my skin enveloped in a steamy kiss? Fuck yeah, I’ll take this all day long.

When my leg heals, I’m keeping this chair.

My eyes slide shut and his face fills my head—Riggs—because who else would I fantasize about? Seriously, I’ve dreamt of him every time I’ve touched myself since meeting him. You could say I’m obsessed, but I wouldn’t because it sounds, well, obsessive. I don’t want to bethatguy, the guy that can’t take a hint. But I refuse to give up yet. Riggs and I are just getting started.

I’ve pushed myself hard all week, past the point of pain and well into excruciating territory, all just to prove to him I’m taking my rehab seriously. At this point, I’m doing it more for him than me, but I’m not sure it even matters why, as long as I show up and get it done. Results are what matter, not the whys and how-tos.

Hell, that even sounds like something Riggs would say. I’m starting to channel him, apparently.

Taking two lungfuls of thick steam into my chest, I breathe deep and imagine it’s Rigg’s rough-skinned hand wrapped around my dick, pumping me until I gasp. My heart beats faster, the pressure in my chest building, until I feel almost lightheaded, and I squeeze the tip of my sensitive cock. It’s too much, too good, and I groan, the sound rumbling like a lion’s roar in the tiny stall. With my other hand, I tug my balls, and I’m there… so close I can taste it. I love this part—teetering on the verge of ecstasy. If I continue to pump, I’ll come, but if I slow my strokes, I can crest again before I finish. It’s been so long since I’ve come that I decide to drag it out.

Releasing my sac, I stroke up and down my shaft until I become impatient and speed up again, eager to feel the rush of release. God, what I wouldn’t give to ride him, to feel him grip my hips, slamming me down hard on his cock. His deep voice urging me to ride him faster, harder, to take his load. My orgasm comes fast and hard, and I shout as I spray my chest.

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