Page 73 of Ride the Sky

I moan, my back arching as blood starts to roar in my ears.

Hard this time, I plunge my fingers into myself. Pleasure builds in my center, my spine. Warm heat.

“Fuck,” I breathe, and with one more stroke of my clit, I come.

WyattWyattWyatt

The release is so intense that I slap a hand over my mouth, gasping my scream into my palm. I ride that wave, throbbing down below. Feeling myself, feeling my wetness drench my fingers, my hand.

Heart racing, I collapse back against the sweaty sheets. “Fuck.”

A calm, sure and steady, overtakes me. The pain in my leg, the texts, the nightmare—gone. It’s what Wyatt does to me. He makes me strong. Makes me feel safe.

And he can never know what he means to me.

The crack of a door. A big warm hand settles on my thigh. “Up.”

“Ugh,” I groan.

Reality comes smashing back. Resurrection. Busted body. Arrogant, annoying cowboy living with me. Got it.

“It’s called knocking.”

“It’s called it’s almost ten.”

I toss an arm over my face as the blinds clatter. Warm sunlight falls across my face. “Is there an option for like not…existing for the day?”

“Nope.” Another squeeze on my thigh. “Up, Trouble.”

I cut him a glare. “I am not the bigger person, Wyatt. You better leave me the fuck alone.”

Wyatt moves across the room, setting my walker, and a change of clothes, closer to the bed. My stomach dips at the gesture. How he’s helping me in his own way, despite me being a stubborn asshole.

“Get up, come have breakfast,” he says, and then he’s gone.

Sighing, I throw back the covers and sit up. I stretch my legs, my hips. Pain lingers in my bones. So does the nightmare.

Gripping the bar of my walker, I pull myself to standing. For over ten minutes, I wage a private and fevered battleto get dressed.

Fuck riding a bull. Simply trying to stick my leg into a pair of loose cotton pants is one of the most difficult physical acts I’ve ever performed.

I can’t do it. I let the pants fall to the ground and stand over them breathing hard.

A basic fucking task. I can’t even do that.

I hate this.

I dig my nails into my bicep and fight the urge to cry.

Breathe. Pull your shit together. Pull it, rope it, bury it deep.

“Fuck it.”

Finally, I give up, tossing a long silky robe over my tank top and underwear. Finding no belt, I leave it untied. It’ll have to do. Wyatt’s seen me in worse.

Hands on my walker, I squeak down the hallway and into the kitchen. My mouth goes dry when I spy Wyatt at the stove flipping bacon.

He’s in blue jeans. No shirt. Tan chest, toned stomach. The man’s pure muscle. All cowboy. So damn beautiful.

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