The third package is for a certain big tatted patient—he said red was your colour, right? That bitch of a boss can’t stifle your creative expression if it’s hidden under your clothes. Go get you some crazy and ride some unhinged dick—you deserve to drown in his madness, sweetness, if that’s what you want.
All the love,
Suzy
PS - I hope you’ve kept up with your exercises—being an oral connoisseur is an art form, and you were always Monet level ready.
I hear her laughter surrounding me even though she isn’t here, and it warms my soul. Dick sucking should never be considered an extracurricular activity, but the idea of pleasuring Ezra with what I know makes me happier for the lessons I endured. At least now they will come in handy. Finally I’ll know what it’s like to give head out of choice rather than coercion.
‘So we’re sucking dick?’that little voice in the back of my head chimes excitedly like I’ve been cock blocking her for an eternity.
“His dick, given the chance, hell yes,” I respond decidedly.
I untie the clasp on the black gift bag with the glittery pink 3 charm looped around the handle and pull out a red lace ensemble that leaves very little to the imagination. Holding it against my body, I sway in time to the music, that throb of desire at the possibility of watching Ezra’s brooding mismatched gaze light up as he sees me in this is enough to have my core clenching.
While I suspect it’s likely nowhere near as good as the real thing, maybe I do have some use for gift number two after all. The frustration building is off the charts.
Moving the box off the bed and onto the floor, I reach for my coat to get my phone from the pocket. I haven’t heard from Suzy for a couple of days, but these gifts deserve a thanks. Looping the hanger holding the lingerie over my neck, I pull up my camera and snap a couple of selfies as I hold it flush against my body and make a kissy face that I know she’ll get a kick out of.
The needle on the record jumps, signalling the end of the song, and I swap it out for a familiar favourite—Suzy’s dog-earedcopy of Gin Wigmore’sKill of the Nighthas a way of speaking to my soul, and the moment that guitar strum kicks in, thoughts of Ezra fill my head.
Pulling my hair free, I finger the unruly waves, dancing over to the mirror and letting the towel around my body fall to the floor as I wiggle into the expensive lace ensemble.Filling my lungs, my gaze tracks my reflection, the underwear clinging to my body like a second skin.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the small package propped up against my pillow. I grab for Suzy’s letter to see if there was a PS written there with instructions for a fourth gift, but I find nothing but a smeared lipstick stain—her signature sign off.
It’s not wrapped with traditional paper but in a ripped-out headline page of the Falcon Falls Enquirer. I tug at the ribbon, the red velvet smooth against my fingers, pull off the paper and lift the lid. Inside I find a pair of handmade brown leather gloves, brass buckles to secure them at the wrist. Detailed red stitching decorates the cuffs, the tapered joints designed to fit my prosthetic perfectly. So much care has gone into them, and instantly, I picture Ezra—his steady hands working that sheet of leather in Felicity’s craft session. A tear tracks down my cheek as I hold the gloves to my chest, the saltiness of it lingering on my lips as I smile at my reflection.
I slide the gloves on, flexing my fingers, enjoying the sound of the fresh unbroken leather as it fits around my hands.
A part of me suspects that Ezra knows about my disfigurement; how could he not? The other part of me refuses to acknowledge how that is even possible.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
EZRA
Seven weeks. Fifty-nine days. One thousand, four hundred hours and more minutes than my brain cares to calculate. That’s how long I’ve spent watching my girl through the two-way mirror she doesn’t know exists—my own private viewing portal into her world. A place where I get to see her at her most vulnerable, completely unaware. Or maybe not. Maybe, on some deep, instinctual level, she feels it. Feels me. Watching her every move.
Is she fucking stupid? Because if not, the fact that you make her bed every day, fill her fridge, and tidy around like a chambermaid might alert her to the fact that she isn’t the only one invested in her care.
Losing all sense of reality, I snap back like I’m arguing with a living, breathing person, “Fuck you.” It’s concise, but I never professed to be a complicated man.
‘Fuck you too - at this point; I’m only here for the pussy, and you’ve kept me waiting long enough,’he bites back.
I groan at the idea of it. We’re all hungry for her. When she dances around to her records, rolling her full hips, light on her bare feet, her underwear peeking out from the loosely tied satin robe—I wonder how nice it would feel to finally get a taste, torun my tongue over her soft supple skin until her body is arching into my touch, silently begging me for more.
I like your thinking.
I shut the voice out and lose myself in her giggles, watching her as she reads the romance novel I had my guy smuggle in with last week’s food delivery. The main character is a brooding possessive alpha with a primal kink; I thought she’d appreciate the irony. Mauves and oranges from the early evening sun floods in through the windows. She’s burrowed beneath her crochet blanket, snuggled up on the moth-eaten suede chaise lounge in the corner. I like to watch as she loses herself in fictional worlds, all while I lose myself in her.
I catch her sometimes, staring at me on her rounds during her shifts, that rosy flush blooming on her cheeks when our eyes meet. Clumsy Cara seems to be a direct result of my presence, and while I don’t love the idea of her falling over and hurting herself, I do get a kick out of her getting flustered like that. The smile that she tries to mask as she bites down on her full lower lip makes me want to study her, to find out what makes her tick, to discover what really makes Cara Morgrieves so impossible to forget. Because the only thing that makes sense to me right now is this—watching her. The sense of closeness, the comfort of another human being’s warmth, I lost the desire for that the day my mother died all those years ago. The grief hollowed out my chest and stole away my ability to love another person when she decided she had no more strength left to fight with—when the release of the hangman’s noose became too inviting for her to ignore.
Like clockwork, I watch as Cara adds an entry into her diary, laying on her belly across her bed in her underwear as her shower heats up in the ensuite. Her bare legs bent at the knees, swaying in the air behind her as she details her day onto the page. I wonder whether my name makes an appearance;the man inside me not tortured by his past—the one who still believes not all is lost with this world, he hopes it does.
Ten minutes later, Cara climbs out of the shower and slips on her nightdress, knocking back one of her nightly sleeping pills with the fresh glass of water I set for her beside her bed. For every night that I’ve watched her, she’s always taken two. I’ve timed how long it takes them to take effect, so my plan should go off without a hitch. Tucking the identical copy of her key on the chain around my neck back into my shirt, I run a hand through my hair, a sly grin tugging at my lips when I see a cheeky smile forming on hers.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CARA
