Frustrated with himself, he called to Boulder, who was sniffing around the back gate, and went for that cold shower. Once in his bedroom, he unbuttoned his shirt, then his pants. Even with the highest level of technology available to him, he still had to sit down to take off his jeans because he couldn’t toe off his shoes like he used to.
He sat on the toilet seat and slid them down past his knees, then rolled the silicone liner down far enough to disengage the suction. After that the leg and pants came off together, and he grabbed the prosthesis he wore in the shower. He could wear his everyday leg, but then he’d have to dump the water out of the foot and make sure it dried completely, so when he was home and it was convenient, he used this one.
The first streams of cold water hit his skin and he sucked in a breath. This was good. Almost impossible to think about the taste of Paige, the shape of her breast in his palm, or her sexy inhale when his thumb brushed over her nipple.
Damn it. He slapped his hand against the cold tile. He wanted to be inside her, and not just to have sex, though that would be beyond-his-dreams amazing. He mostly just wanted to be as close to her as possible, to lose himself in her.
His thoughts turned more vivid, and he closed his eyes and imagined her standing in front of him, her ass pressing back against his groin. Running soap-slicked hands up and over her breasts as he licked the beads of water from her neck. He’d tell her to put her hands against the wall and she’d do it, bending over, pushing her hips back even more, begging him to take her from behind.
Blood throbbed through his erection and he groaned, resting his forehead against the tile. So much for a cold shower.
He’d never felt this way, shouldn’t feel this way now, but he did. When he looked into Paige’s ocean-blue eyes, he wanted everything. But even if she changed her mind about fairy tales, he sure as hell was no prince.
He stood there another few minutes before getting out. Then, still damp from the shower, he pulled on boxers and lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. No matter how many times he replayed his past, trying to conjure up a different outcome, it was always the same. Even eight years later he could still hear the church bells ringing, still feel the tie of his tux choking his neck as he’d jogged down the steps outside Saint Sebastian’s after Matt and Abby’s wedding.
The sun burned bright in a blue sky, the January air was crisp and cool. He’d needed to crank up some music, have a moment to himself before talking to his billion relatives.
He cleared the last step, turned right down the sidewalk, and—Shit. Rachel, his very much ex-girlfriend, stood, leaning against his red Mazda. Double shit. She’d be good and pissed he hadn’t caved in time to take her to his brother’s wedding. She had a thing for weddings.
A year behind him in school, they’d taken an angry break when he’d gone off to college last fall. The end of a long battle because he’d refused to turn down a football scholarship to a D1 college instead of staying local and waiting for her to graduate. As if he’d ever consider doing something so stupid.
But six weeks ago he’d come home for Christmas break and they’d gotten together, all the way together.
For about ten seconds he’d thought a long-distance thing might actually work. But as soon as their clothes were back on, Rachel’s claws came out, and it was right back to where they’d left off.
“Have you been with other girls since you left? You’re cheating on me, aren’t you?”
He wasn’t a cheater, but they’d been broken up. Wrong answer.
“I’ll forgive you if you come home,” she’d said, like she was doing him a favor.
She really thought he’d quit football? Transfer schools? Was she crazy? He’d choked out a laugh, not because it was funny, but just from shock.
“We’re never getting back together!” she’d screamed. “Ever! I mean it!” Then she’d slapped him across the face.
That had pissed him off. The slap, not the words, because he was done with this shit. He’d never made her promises, never led her on. They’d been high school sweethearts, teenagers with a teenage love who did the breakup, makeup every other weekend.
But now here she was, waiting for him, two months after that ultimatum, Christmas break throwdown, and she didn’t even look mad. A trickle of unease slid down his spine as he stopped in front of her.
“Hey,” she said, looking up at him with an almost shy smile.
He slipped off the tie and released the top button. “Hey. What’s up?”
“I wanted to talk to you.” She brushed back her long, dark hair that he knew to be silky soft. “My sister dropped me off. I told her you’d take me home.”