I ease away from her and up to sitting. I quickly deal with the condom, then contemplate how I’m going to get to the shower without the crutches. The thought of Katie seeing my scarred, naked body hobbling to the shower on crutches is a hit to the ego I don’t think I want to take.
Katie sits up beside me, flings her legs over the edge of the sofa, and stands up before me.
“Would you like to lean on me to get to the shower?” It’s like she heard the conversation rolling around in my head. I take her offered hands and stand. Then, throwing one arm across her shoulders like we did before, we slowly make our way into my bedroom and the adjoining bathroom.
The shower in the cottage has been perfect with my injury. It’s a large tiled space running across one end of the bathroom, the only divider a glass panel that runs to halfway. With a solid wooden stool placed under the rainfall shower head, it’s been a safe way for me to shower alone or, as is the case now, with a friend.
Water pours over our bodies. Me sitting on the stool, Katie standing between my legs.
She reaches for my bottle of shampoo, holds it out to me, and asks, “Will you wash my hair?”
I take the offered bottle and smile. “I’ve never washed a woman’s hair before, so there are no guarantees that it won’t end up a tangled mess.”
She laughs. “I’m willing to take the risk.”
She sits on the tiled floor between my legs, her back to me. I pour some of the shampoo into my palms and begin to lather the foamy liquid through those beautiful dark strands. It’s surprisingly erotic, massaging my fingers into her scalp while she sits before me, her head resting between my thighs and only inches from my hardening cock. I’m mesmerized by the way the same rivulets of warm water running down my body flow over hers.
Even when the water runs clear, I continue, moving from her head down her neck and shoulders and then farther still, over her breasts, cupping her slippery tits in my palms and massaging their fullness.
I’m so hard for her again.
Chapter ten
Drew
Alittlewhilelater,we’re back in the kitchen, clean, dressed, and hungry.
I lean against the open fridge door, staring at the contents. “I’d like to offer you something to eat, but all I have are the basics. Some tins of soup, ham, cheese, bread, eggs, and milk are the lot until my regular order of groceries gets delivered tomorrow.” I straighten and look over to where she’s standing at the end of the countertop a few feet away. She’s doing up the last of the buttons on her shirt and hiding that little white lacy bra from my sight. Her sexy underwear is something else.
“How about ham and cheese toasties?” she asks, smiling like she knows I was just checking her out.
“Great idea.”
We work together preparing the simple meal and when the toasties are ready, Katie carries them on a tray out to the deck. She’s so easy to be with. Oddly, with her, it doesn’t annoy me when she asks if I’m okay, and it no longer feels uncomfortable having her help me. When she insisted on washing me in the shower while I sat on the stool, it was anything but uncomfortable. Her soapy, soft hands running freely over every inch of my body was soothing. It even felt good when she sat on the tiles and took my right leg into her lap to gently wash the scarred flesh.
I’m noticing that she doesn’t look at me like I’m helpless. Not like my family. I love my family dearly, but back in London, they were getting on my last nerve. Constantly asking if I was okay. My mother’s eyes filling with tears whenever she looked at my shattered legs. I don’t need other people reminding me that my body is broken. It’s fucking obvious every time I move.
It’s a tough pill to swallow, that my body can no longer be relied on to perform the simplest of tasks. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt so out of my depth. I was trained by the best in the SAS to be the best. I can survive extreme conditions with little more than the skills my training gave me. I can protect myself physically with or without a weapon in my hands. But that was all before the accident, and I’m struggling to come to terms with my new reality. Vulnerability is not something I’ve ever been familiar with. I’m worried this might be an emotion I’ll have to learn to live with.
Over our late lunch, we’ve talked about where we grew up and our families back home—mine in Scotland and hers in the States. And now we’ve just finished talking a little more about my injuries, the surgeries, and my recovery. The conversation flows freely from one topic to the next.
It was nice to be able to speak calmly and openly about my recovery with Katie, even if we didn’t cover my biggest concern. I’m not ready to talk to anyone about the possibility that I may be left permanently injured. I fear saying those words out loud will turn the maybe into reality, and I’m determined to be optimistic. Even if the doctor’s prognosis is that I’ll be left with a significant limp because my right leg is now a little shorter than my left. How noticeable the limp will be is all down to me.
I finish eating and place my plate back on the table. Over the last few minutes, we’ve fallen into a comfortable silence, each of us gazing out at the ocean, caught up in our own thoughts.
Katie places her plate on top of mine, and it looks like she might be ready to go. I don’t want her to leave yet; I’m enjoying her company.
“Will you tell me more about your family?” I ask. I want to learn more about her, and she’s an amusing storyteller.
She turns to look at me. “What would you like to know?”
“I don’t know. Maybe something that I can’t find by Googling the Carlson family.”
“Ah, the secrets and skeletons in the family closet. I don’t know that I can trust you with those.”
“The British government trusted me with secrets, so you can too.” I hold up my hand and promise. “I swear I won’t sell the Carlson family secrets to the tabloids, pass them on to the intelligence agencies, or sell them on the dark web.”
She laughs. “Honestly, there aren’t even any secrets to tell. Although I guess my early years haven’t made it to the internet. My mom and stepdad did a pretty good job of keeping us kids out of the spotlight until we turned eighteen.”
