Owen came to a fully awake state as he’d been trained to do. Light was streaming in through the wall of windows as he processed where he was.

His apartment. On the beach. In Virginia.

With a groan, he flopped onto his back and tried to ignore the morning wood. But he couldn’t. So he handled it, then sat on the side of his too-big bed with the too-soft mattress and the too-fluffy pillows and tried to come to terms with the half of his leg that remained.

Mornings were the hardest times, he’d learned. When he’d wake up after dreaming of his old self only to find that he was no longer whole—that he was diminished, reduced, a gimp, a cliché.

For a half second, the smells of brewing coffee and frying bacon seemed like a normal occurrence. Then he remembered he’d left Lainey, she with the hot-as-fuck bod, the funny-as-hell attitude, and killer kitchen skills, passed out on his couch the night before. A knock on his half-open door made him flinch and drag the comforter over his sticky lap.

“Uh, yeah.” He cleared his throat and prayed he didn’t look or smell like he’d just jacked off.

“How do you like your eggs?” she asked from the hallway.

“However you want to make them. I’m not picky.”

“Oh, well, okay. I thought I’d make an omelet. You’ve got some decent ingredients in the fridge.”

“Yeah, sure. Use whatever you want.” He hesitated. “Thanks.”

“No, thank you,” she said before poking her head into the room. Her contagious smile lit up Owen’s entire universe. He gripped the cover tighter. Her gaze flickered across his shoulders, down his bare torso, then back to his face. Her cheeks flushed red in a way that made him stiffen under the comforter. Without another word, she disappeared, her bare feet padding down the hardwood hall.

After a few minutes, he got up and limped into the bathroom. One hot shower later, he emerged. After a brief inner debate, he left his prosthetic leaning against the chair in the bedroom and grabbed his crutch. The stump below his knee was killing him, along with the sore and bandaged shoulder he’d had to keep out of the shower water.

She had some music cranked—The Rolling Stones, which made him tick more points in her favor—and was standing with her back to him at the stove. Her hair was piled up on her head, and the sight of her long, tanned neck made his mouth water. As he leaned in the hall, just out of her line of sight if she turned, she sang along with Mick into the spatula for a chorus of Brown Sugar, then flipped a perfect-looking omelet out onto a plate.

She was wearing her shirt from the night before, but she must have dug through his clean laundry piled next to the dryer and found a pair of boxer shorts. Her legs were just as he’d imagined them—long and tanned, not overly muscular but shapely, ending in feet that never seemed to stop moving as she danced around his kitchen. She divided the omelet in two and put them on plates that already had pieces of thick bacon and a pile of fresh berries.

Still unaware of his rapt observation, she stuck a blueberry in her mouth, raised her arms, and wiggled her hips to the next tune. Owen had to stifle a groan and lean back against the wall at the pure glory of the woman’s body and her comfort level in his space. It was, in a word, perfect.

And yet, silly of him to even think such a thing. She was miles out of his league. He glared down at the erection tenting his shorts until it softened enough for him to make an appearance.

“Oh, hi,” she said, turning as she reached up to refasten her hair. That move revealed a bronzed line of flesh between the waistband of his boxers and the hem of her shirt. That move also caused a swift and near painful resurgence of his boner. He sat in the tall chair at the eating counter that jutted out into the living room before she could see it.

“Looks great,” he croaked out, grabbing the mug of coffee and drinking to cover his embarrassment.

“Yeah. Should be,” she said. “Is that what I think it is?” She pointed to the homebrew system set up on one of the six burners.

“If you think I’m brewing beer, then yeah, it is.” He inhaled a piece of the bacon, and then started on the omelet.

“Cool,” she said as she slid into the chair next to him. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to do that.” Owen shifted slightly away from her as she picked up her fork and dug into her own plate. They were silent a while, the only noises those of forks on plates, chewing, and swallowing. “That is some view,” she said eventually, pointing with her fork to the beach. A few families were setting up their day camps. It was something Owen loved to watch. Functional, happy families always fascinated him.

“Wow,” he said as he finished the last of the dark brew coffee.

She smiled at him. His heart seemed to clench tight, then release and beat way too fast at the sight of it. He frowned and returned his gaze to the ocean.

“I can run you home,” he said at the same time she said, “I guess I should go home.”

Their eyes met. He grinned. She giggled and touched a napkin to her full lips, making Owen wish very much that he could be that napkin.

Get a grip, man. She just feels sorry for your gimpy ass. Get her home. You have work to do anyway.

As he gave himself this mental lecture, she jumped down and started tidying up, rinsing dishes, loading the dishwasher and cleaning the pans she’d used with a quick sort of efficiency he’d seen her use in the office. He felt frozen in place, mired in mud, stuck and yet unable to stop staring at her. After she had given the oven top and black granite counters a wipe-down, she touched her wrist to her forehead and sighed. The slight sheen of sweat on her face made his lips burn with the need to taste it, to taste her, all of her.

He shook his head.

“What?” she asked, leaning on her elbows on the opposite side of the eating counter, which gave him a clear view down her blouse. She’d forgone the bra. The sight of her dark pink nipples made him shiver from head to toe.

“Are you trying to seduce me?” His voice was gruff. It made the words seem blunter, angrier than he’d meant for them to sound.

She stood up, taking the boob shot with her, which made him both unhappy and relieved. “No. I was just . . . cooking. You know, the one thing I can do well?” She crossed her arms and glared at him a half second. “Can I use your phone? I need to call a ride.”

“I’m sorry, Lainey,” he said, getting to his one foot. She handed him the crutch in silence. His face flamed hot with shame that she had to do that. He grabbed it and limped over to the couch. She’d folded the afghan and replaced the fancy throw pillows that had come with the living room suite he’d bought off the furniture store floor. He stayed standing, leaning on the crutch, his face, shoulder, and his stump of a leg all burning hot. The families had multiplied, and the beach below his balcony was filled with the sounds of children, music, and the ever-present tide.

When she put a hand on his elbow, he shut his eyes. “I’ll take you home,” he insisted.

“No, I think you’ve done enough,” she said, her voice soft as she tucked her hand into his shorts pocket. He flinched until he realized that she was fishing for his phone. Device in hand, she guided him to the big leather chair and kept her cool hand on his arm until he sat and had one and a half legs up on the large ottoman. Exhaustion settled in on him, aided by the whoosh of depleting adrenaline from the day and night before, not to mention the belly full of delicious breakfast.

“Just rest, Owen,” Lainey said, her light voice soothing his frazzled nerves. He closed his eyes. When he felt her lips on his cheek, he reached out and wrapped his fingers around her arm and tugged her gently closer. She shifted so she was sitting on the arm of the chair, one hand on his face, the other on the opposite arm, which made that fucking shirt gape so wide he could smell her skin and put him so close to her breasts it took his breath away.

Women were no mystery to him. He’d always prided himself in keeping his view of them clinical, on a physical realm, nothing more or less. But right now, at this moment, his heart pounded in his ears, and his pulse raced so fast, he worried he might hyperventilate as he gazed into the deep blue pools of her eyes. His whole body felt like a twanging, painful exposed nerve.

“Owen,” she whispered before she slanted her mouth over his, opening her lips to him even as she slid into his lap. He clutched at her, not even sure where he wanted to touch her more. For the first time in months, he was unaware of himself as a wounded man—a man with little purpose, who’d been ruined by his own shitty choices. All he knew was Lainey—the sweet taste of her tongue as it met his, the waft of coffee on her lips, with an undercurrent of his toothpaste she must have used before he woke. He groaned and threaded his fingers in her hair, clutching her as if she were a life jacket, the only thing keeping him afloat.

Her arms were around his neck, but the angle was awkward and didn’t give either of them the connection they wanted. He broke the kiss and then watched her face as he started flipping open the buttons of her blouse. If it were physically possible, his dick got even harder at the sight of her perfect breasts with their firm nipples. He stared at them like a teenager gawking at his first pussy magazine, his urge to grip them, to suck her nipples into his mouth, overrun by the urge to fall to his knees and worship her.

“What’s wrong,” she whispered, running her fingers through his hair and shifting so the shirt slid off her shoulders.

“I . . . I want . . . I can’t,” he said, looking up and away from the incredible woman, half-naked on his lap.

“Why not?” she said, pressing her lips to his neck and pulling one of his hands up so it cupped the full curve of one breast. His fingers shook as he passed his thumb over the stiff nub of flesh, making her shiver and moan into his skin. “I want you. Owen, I’ve wanted you to do this since the first time I laid eyes on you.”

As he stared at her, she got up, shimmied out of his shorts, and stood, looking more like a Greek goddess of womanly perfection than he’d ever dreamed possible. He swallowed hard, the feeling of being frozen in place never stronger. She cupped her breasts and passed her own thumbs across both nipples. Owen made a noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh as she leaned down to unzip his shorts and work them off his hips.

I always wanted to fuck a gimp.

The words hit him in the brain with the force of a hard slap as she straddled him. He put his hands on her full hips, stopping her from lowering any further.

“No,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“What? Why not?” she asked as she moved forward so her belly button was at his eye level. The smell of her lust, her womanhood, everything about her filled Owen’s brain, forcing his eyes shut and his hands up to grip her hips again. “Please, Owen. I want this. So badly.”

He watched as she slipped a finger inside herself, then pulled it out and put it to his lips. He took it, tasting her, and willing the sound of the evil bitch Hannah’s voice out of his head. Giving her a slight shove, he sat up and loomed over as she sprawled back on the leather ottoman, her hair loose and tumbling over her shoulders. Her color was high, and the smell of her made him insane with lust.

“Why?” he asked, as he touched the exposed sweet nub of her clit with his finger, teasing and stroking as she spread her legs wider and writhed under his gaze. “Why do you want this so badly, Lainey?”

Going down on his one decent knee, the pain in his shoulder and stump faded as he sucked one of her glorious nipples into his mouth. She sighed and clutched his shoulder, shifting her hips up and pressing against his hand as he slid two fingers inside her, keeping pressure against her clit. He sucked, stroked, and angled his fingers high and forward, and when she came, it was with a low moan, a shudder, and an incredible clench of her inner muscles.

“Oh, damn.” She sighed, letting go of his shoulder and opening her arms up as she gazed up at the ceiling. “That was . . . very nice.”

Owen was frozen again, his heart pounding, his ears ringing, every inch of his flesh on fire as he watched her stretch like a satisfied kitty cat. He passed his hand down her waist to her hips, then down her firm thighs and calves. He wanted to make love to this woman for the rest of his life, he thought, without a trace of irony as she sat up, pushed him back into his seat, and dropped to her knees in front of him.

“Wait, Lainey, I’m . . . holy . . . mother of . . . ahhhhh . . .” He sighed as she slipped her lips over his aching cock. Keeping her eyes on him, she teased around the edge of his head with her sweet, talented tongue. She had one hand under his balls and stroked there as she deep throated him once, then again, then a third time. He clutched the chair arms and tried not to blow.

When she looked up at him once more, he croaked out, “I’m gonna come, baby. I’m gonna shoot right down your . . . oh God!” he cried out and let himself have it when she swallowed him one last time. He gripped her hair as his hips thrust up and his body gave in to the most amazing orgasm he’d had in years.

When she slid her lips up and off his glistening, still pulsing dick, she grinned and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth before dropping back onto the ottoman. A strange sort of darkness slipped over his brain as his body recovered. A weird emotion made him keep a death grip on the leather chair arms, unsure what he might do or say to ruin this moment if he allowed himself to give in to it.

Finally, he sensed her get up, find her shirt, and pad away from him, presumably to the bathroom. By the time she returned, he’d reassembled his shorts and was flopped back into the reclining position, his eyes closed. Unwilling to let himself feel what his brain kept insisting, he pretended to sleep. He heard the water run in the kitchen, then the dishwasher door open.

Keeping his eyes shut was the hardest thing he’d done since boot camp, but he did it, waiting her out, willing her to leave him in peace so he could process the last forty-eight hours alone.

I don’t do girlfriends. I don’t do emotions. I do sex. Maybe that’s all she wanted too.

But as he allowed himself one quick peek at her progress, the sight of her sitting and slipping her feet back into the shoes she’d been wearing at the office on Friday set up an ache in the middle of his chest. It hit even lower, down in his guts, and he knew he had to run from this as fast as he could.

Soft, cool, lips touched his. He moved his head so she’d stop. Her fingers brushed his hair off his forehead. He kept up his sleeping pretense.

“Thanks,” she whispered in his ear before giving his earlobe a little nip with her teeth. “See you Monday.”

When the door finally closed behind her, Owen lurched forward, elbows on his knees, his head pounding with the reality of what he’d done with—of how he felt about—the wonderful woman he’d have to see Monday at the office.