Chapter
10
~Hammer~
What the hell have I gotten myself into? Yeah, I wanted to go home, but how was I supposed to know trouble was headed my way if I did? Now I have the sexiest woman alive moved in with me.
She walks around here in these short-ass shorts that hug her luscious ass that is calling out for me to grab with two hands as I slam her down on my cock. And when she thinks I’m done for the night, she takes off her bra, letting her boobs move freely inside the tiny tank top she prefers to sleep in. I never thought a woman could be sexier in clothes than out of them, but the sight of Desirae in her pajamas gets my dick harder than any porn ever could. There is something about the way her night clothes cling to her that fuels my nightly fantasies of peeling them off before licking her from head to toe.
One week, she’s been here, and one week, I have had the worst case of blue balls known to man. Yesterday, I called a barfly here and fucked her hard. No, that’s wrong. She fucked me hard. So hard the bed was banging against the wall and Desirae, thinking I fell, came rushing in. The blush that hit her face only had me thinking of how pink her pussy is and if I could make her blush everywhere. After her invasion, I wasn’t able to finish and sent Kate on her way, pissed off. Oh, fucking well.
Kate isn’t the only one who is pissed off. I’m pissed that I have blue balls! And my doctor will be more than pissed if he finds out I went against his orders and had sex at all.
The only good news that came out of that cluster-fuck was the realization that the doctor could suck it about his no sex rule. The only part of my body that hurt after Kate stormed out was my dick, because it was still rock hard and begging to finish. My hips, back, and legs were a little sore the next day from the way Kate had done her best to try fucking me through my own damn mattress, but it wasn’t that bad.
Since then, I have subjected myself to being the silent stalker at night. I’m not sure this is healthy for me or Desirae. I want nothing more than to have my legs working so I can pin her to the wall and fuck her with her legs wrapped tightly around my waist, and the noise she hears will be the sounds of her back and head slamming into the wall as I slam into her.
With the way my bedroom door sits open, I can hide in my chair in the shadows as she moves around my place as if it’s her own. Night after night, once I wheel into my room, she slides off the oversized T-shirt she wears around me and takes off that bra. Every step, her curls bounce, breasts jiggle, and ass moves in sync, all of them calling out to my cock.
What does she do that only makes things worse for me? She sleeps on my fucking couch. Oh, to be the leather clinging to her skin each and every night. She says it is to be close should I need her. Sure, I need her all right. I need her to climb on my dick and ride me until neither of us can see straight. Then maybe my eyes would stop watching her ass every time it sways back and forth as she crosses the room or her plump breasts as they bounce with each step she takes.
What’s worse is she’s not a fucking Amazon. She’s simply perfect: tight in the right places and soft where I want to grip. She has all the training to lift me and move me when needed without overexerting herself. She damn sure knows what she’s doing both for herself and for me. Every touch only makes me want one taste of her, just one.
If this obsession my dick and eyes have for her doesn’t stop soon, then I am going to start thinking she is a living, breathing drug, addicting parts of me to hers slowly, one piece at a time. An addiction like that could be dangerous.
In our line of business, I see a lot of ass. I see a lot of curves, titties, and pussy when the panties slip the wrong way. I have had a lot of ass and handled a lot of curves.
I look down at my large, calloused hands. I have massaged more than my fair share of titties. I have had tight pussy, loose pussy, fat-lipped pussy, skinny-lipped pussy, hairy pussy, trimmed pussy, and the sculpted for my pleasure pussy. I have seen it all, had it all, tasted it all.
I love women. I love their curves, their soft touch, the feel of their bodies against mine. I love sliding in and out as a woman’s pussy molds to my cock.
A woman’s pussy is a powerful thing, really. It is not a delicate flower. Its beauty is far greater than any flower, any painting, or anything of this earth. The pussy is a deadly weapon. It is like a Venus fly trap. It mesmerizes, calls to you, and then snap! It has you contained. Inch by inch, it molds to you. A woman’s pussy holds the power as you slide balls deep inside, getting lost to the sensation. No man has control once he finds himself in the depths of the perfect pussy.
Though I have had a lot of pussy, I have never found the perfect one. My fear is the perfect pussy, the kryptonite to my super powers of an alpha male, may just belong to a broad who calls herself Drill Sergeant Bust My Balls. Only in my fucked up life would I lose myself to a woman who controls my daily activities and wants nothing to do with me beyond her job, a woman who is in shit so deep I don’t know if she will ever see the light of day.
What does all of this do for me? It makes me hard. What does getting hard do for me? Not a damn thing because the only pussy in this condo is untouchable.
I fuck around a lot, but I don’t mix business with pleasure. As she is on my payroll, I don’t need to get either of us into something we can’t untangle ourselves from without collateral damage. Since I can’t pound out my aggression on a pussy, I work out.
This is my newfound past time: working out. It is probably not good to go beyond what Desirae has laid out, but in the seven days she has been here, I have worked out my hand far more than I should. After enough of giving in to my body’s cravings for her in the only way I can, I will push the rest of my body and mind until I can sleep away the days.
I have tried drinking for a distraction, but it only makes me want to go out to my living room and do dirty things to her. If I keep letting myself slip into a drunken stupor, I may give in to my thoughts one night … and I’m not sure Desirae has the same desires as me.
Parking my wheelchair in the middle of the open space in my bedroom, I lock the wheels before dragging my metal walker closer. I positioned it just a while ago in preparation for one of the new exercises Drill Sergeant Bust My Balls has introduced to me. It is supposed to slowly build my muscles, but it also teaches me to be aware of my movements.
A sardonic laugh escapes me at the thought that I now have to “exercise” just to get out of a chair. Some tough guy I am.
Staring at the dull metal in my hands, anger washes through me. Never in my life did I think I would have to use one of these stupid things. Now here I sit with one that has those little yellow tennis balls on the front legs. If anyone saw me with this damn thing, they would probably laugh their ass off.
Using my anger as fuel, I place my hands on the edge of my chair’s arms and grip them tightly. Then I scoot my butt forward to the edge of the seat and slowly lean forward until my nose goes over my toes before I push myself up with my arms and thigh muscles.
Once I am unsteadily on my own two feet, I take one hand off my wheelchair and move it to my walker. Then I follow with my other hand. After standing there for about thirty seconds on my own, I slowly reverse the steps until I am safely seated again.
Shaking my head at the thought of my being reduced to this, I blow out a frustrated breath then do the exercise again. And again.
Somewhere around my eighth repetition, which is where Desirae had me stop yesterday, my legs start to shake, my arms start to burn, and sweat starts dotting my forehead. I refuse to stop, though. I passed Army boot camp, Green Beret training, and war. A wheelchair and the lower half of my body are not going to get the best of me.
I force my body to do six more repetitions before my arms start shaking so badly they can barely hold me up, and my legs feel like overcooked spaghetti.
The logical part of my brain is telling me I should have stopped three repetitions ago. Who the fuck listens to logic, though? Therefore, I force my body to scoot to the end of my seat again. Leaning forward, I once again push up with my arms, and with a grunt and what little strength I have left in my legs, I manage to get one hand on the walker as I stand.
A thrill of victory shoots through me. I told Drill Sergeant Bust My Balls I could do more repetitions yesterday, and she didn’t listen. She just primly told me that I couldn’t push myself too hard, or I might accidentally hurt myself, setting my progress back. Well, good ol’ Bust My Balls can kiss my ass, because here I am, proving her wrong.
Or, at least that’s what I thought until my legs give out from under me, and I lose my balance, tipping the walker over and falling with it. I can’t even get my hands out in front of me to help catch my fall, because they are still wrapped around the handles of the walker. Talk about an epic face plant.
It hurts like hell, too. My muscles are screaming in agony, and there is a sharp pain shooting across my hips and down my left leg. As the pain radiates through my body, a scream of frustration pours out of me, and I punch the floor. About the time I pull back to punch the floor for the second time, my bedroom door flies open, and Desirae rushes to my side.
“Sweet baby Jesus, Hammer, are you okay?” Her face is scrunched up in concern as she gently pats me down to make sure I haven’t hurt myself more than I already am. This is not the way I wanted her hands on me.
“Stop touching me, woman.”
“I’m just trying to make sure nothing is broken!”
Sending her a glare, I snap, “The only thing broken at the moment is my fuckin’ pride, so stop pattin’ me down and help me get off this fuckin’ floor before I fire your ass.”
She huffs yet slowly helps me up until I am standing on my own two feet again, which is only because she is supporting my body weight. With the patience of a saint, she then helps me shuffle my feet until we cross the two feet to my bed where she makes me lie down.
Fluffing my pillow, setting my clothes right, she fusses over me like some mother hen with her chick. It only makes me angrier.
Pushing her hands away, I growl, “I’m good. Now get out.”
Her eyebrows snap down, and she frowns at me. Then she gets the same look on her face that my mom would get right before she lectured me half to death about something. No damn way am I going to listen to her mouth right now.
“Don’t wanna hear it. Now get the fuck out.”
Her jaw snaps shut, and she glares at me for another minute before finally stomping out of the room.
This has to be the first time I have hated the sight of her walking away from me, but fuck it. A man needs to be alone to lick his wounds.
Two steps forward and five steps back. Dammit, Ethan, get your shit together.
~Desirae~
After hearing a loud bang in Hammer’s room, followed by feeling the actual apartment floor shake for a second, I run as fast as I can to check on him. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised to find him on the floor since I have had patients fall before, but I am. Of course, that’s only because I can see his walker underneath his body, and the wheels on his chair are locked. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he has been doing: the stand-up exercise I introduced to him yesterday.
Damn the man for being so stubborn!
Once I make sure he has no real injuries other than his damn pride, I leave the room.
I swear I need to run. I need to escape. Now that he is having a moment to himself, I need one for myself. The closer he gets and the more I’m around him, the harder he is to resist. I’m not sure it would be fair to him or myself to even give into anything between us. I don’t know what the future holds and I don’t think I should bring anyone else along for the ride.
I just don’t know if I have the self-control to keep my distance.
The bathroom is my new hideout. His eyes haunt me every night. I have a bedroom. I just can’t sleep there. The couch, even though the nightmares still come, is a tight space and seems to remind me I’m not alone. I also like feeling close to Hammer and knowing, if he needs me, I can be there.
Sometimes, I hear him move around. Knowing he’s there and I’m nowhere near home, I find the comfort to get back to sleep. I make sure to get up earlier than him so I can hide the fact that, night after night, I am drenched in cold sweats from the bad dreams of my sister and the tree. I’m here to help Hammer heal, not for him to deal with my drama.
With all the security cameras, the systems, and the Regulators rotation I know they are keeping an eye on the place. I don’t want to say I have a false sense of security because no one can save me from my dreams, but I do feel safe here.
There is this dynamic between Hammer and I that I’ve never had before. We balance each other and he intrigues me. I have this connection to him that is about more than him being my patient. I want to see him succeed not just to be well, but because there is a hunger in his eyes. I have met a lot of people in my profession, but none are as driven as Hammer. Every time he looks at me I can’t help but feel like he is seeing beyond the moment. I feel like he feels my pain, my loss, and more than that I feel like he understands my situation.
I want to touch him. Working out and stretching him, I see his body is clearly defined. As much as he drinks, though, I would hate to see his liver. Other than that, his body is a perfect male mold.
I slap myself across the face. Snap out of it, Des! I lived with the Hellions for years, and not one of them had my body strung so tightly I felt like one rub would have me screeching like a violin’s strings. What is it about Ethan ‘Hammer’ McCoy that has me wanting to be pounded?
I strive for professionalism.
I make sure every day I stay covered. I’ve seen the hard on he gets when we work out. He isn’t ashamed, and honestly with what he’s packing he shouldn’t be. I just don’t want him to feel like I’m a tease. When I know Hammer is in his room for the night, I change into my night clothes. His couch isn’t nearly as comfortable as a bed, but it is one nice damn sofa.
I look up at the ceiling from my perch on the toilet. This is something Suzie would fall into. I have a serious case of insta-lust. I don’t know how many guys she brought home, swearing it was true love when it was nothing more than damn good sex.
Tears fill my eyes. Suzie, is that what got you in this situation?
I miss my sister, my life. I miss knowing what will happen next. And I miss little things like being able to go to the grocery store. The Regulators have been good about doing shopping and making sure I have anything I need or want, but there is something about picking your own produce that suddenly feels liberating. Too often, my mind worries over what the future holds rather than giving my all to the here and now with Hammer.
It is my fault he got hurt tonight. I’m supposed to be helping him make progress. He stays tense, though; his flexibility is hindering his mobility.
Settling on the couch, I pull out my notebook and adjust his care plan. I asked for this. I asked the Hellions to find a way to get me out. This is my new reality. I need to give it my all and not dwell on the things I can’t change.
Nothing will bring Suzie back. Nothing will change what those monsters did to my sister. Nothing will fix the fear I will forever live with. For that reason, I will focus on the things I can do.
I can help Hammer. His injury is not permanent, and I can help him see he can come back stronger than ever before. I can help him see his accident not as a weakness, but rather a challenge to overcome. I can help the man in the room beside me. Starting tonight, he gets my all.