Investing in My Crippled Wife: My Duchess Makes me Overpowered

He stood there a moment, just looking at her. She was beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with conventional beauty. She was beautiful in the way the earth was beautiful, in the way storms were beautiful, all power and vulnerability tangled together.

”You’re still staring,” she said.

”I’m never going to stop.”

She reached for him, her hand extended, a silent invitation. He took it, letting her pull him down onto the bed beside her, the mattress shifting under his weight. They lay facing each other, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off her skin, close enough that her breath ghosted across his lips.

”Hi,” she said softly.

”Hi.”

She laughed, the same breathless sound from the bathroom, and it made him smile. ”We keep doing that.”

”I don’t mind.”

”Neither do I.” Her hand found his chest, fingers splaying over his heart. It was beating fast, and she could feel it, and she didn’t look away. ”I was scared of this, you know. Of being touched. I thought—after everything—I’d flinch away. That my body would remember what happened before and refuse to let anyone close.”

”And now?”

”Now I’m wondering why I waited so long.” She shifted closer, pressing herself against his side, her leg hooking over his. The contact was electric, skin against skin, and he felt his breath catch. ”Touch me, Emeric. Please. I want to feel like I’m still alive.”

He rolled toward her, his hand finding her waist, her hip, the curve of her thigh. She was soft and warm and real, and he mapped her body with his fingertips, learning the landscape of her. The hollow of her collarbone. The swell of her breast. The dip of her waist, the flare of her hip. Every inch of her was a discovery, and he wanted to spend a lifetime making it.

”Beautiful,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. ”You’re beautiful, Isolde.”

She made a sound, half laugh, half sob. ”I don’t feel beautiful. I feel broken.”

”You’re not broken. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.” He kissed her neck, the hollow behind her ear, the spot where her pulse fluttered like a trapped bird. ”You survived something that would have destroyed anyone else. You’re still here. You’re still fighting. That’s not broken. That’s magnificent.”

”I don’t know what to do with that,” she whispered. ”I don’t know what to do with you.”

”You don’t have to do anything.” He pulled back to meet her eyes, his hand cupping her face. ”You just have to be here. That’s all I need.”

She kissed him then, fierce and desperate, her hands fisting in his hair. He kissed her back, matching her intensity, his body pressing hers into the mattress. The rails clanked softly as the bed shifted, and he heard himself groan, low in his throat, as she arched against him.

”Isolde—”

”I know.” She was breathing hard, her eyes dark and wild. ”I can feel it—you—” She broke off, gasping as his hand found her, stroking slow and deliberate. ”That’s—Emeric, that’s—”

”I’ve got you.”

She bucked against him, her nails raking down his back. He was careful, so careful, watching her face for any sign of pain, any flicker of discomfort. He found none. What he found instead was wonder—pure, unfiltered wonder, as if she’d forgotten her body could feel like this.

He kissed his way down her body, his mouth tracing the path his hands had already mapped. Her breasts. Her stomach. The soft skin of her inner thighs. She gasped when his lips found the sensitive skin there, her fingers tangling in his wet hair.

”What are you—”

”Shh. Just feel.”

He didn’t rush. He wanted to memorize every moment of this—the way she gasped, the way she trembled, the way her breath caught in her throat. He wanted to build her up slow, piece by piece, until she shattered in his arms.

She shattered beautifully.

Her back arched off the bed, a cry tearing from her lips, her body shuddering through waves of pleasure. He held her through it, his arms wrapped around her hips, feeling every tremor. When she finally stilled, he kissed his way back up her body, settling beside her.

Her eyes were closed, her chest heaving. A single tear slipped from beneath her lashes, tracking down her cheek.

”Hey.” He brushed it away with his thumb. ”Hey, look at me.”

She opened her eyes. They were bright, too bright, full of something that looked like relief.

”I didn’t know,” she whispered. ”I didn’t know it could feel like that. I’d forgotten. I thought—I thought that part of me was gone.”

”It’s not gone.” He kissed her forehead, her nose, her lips. ”It was waiting. That’s all.”

She pulled him down to her, wrapping her arms around him, holding on like he might disappear. He settled between her legs, careful, asking wordless permission with his eyes.

”Yes,” she breathed. ”Yes. Please.”

He entered her slowly, one inch at a time, watching her face for any sign of pain. There was none. Just pleasure, deep and rich, and the way her eyes fluttered shut as he filled her.

”Emeric.” His name was a prayer, a surrender. ”Emeric, I—”

”I know.” He began to move, slow and steady, each stroke deliberate. ”I know. I feel it too.”

They moved together, finding a rhythm that was older than either of them, primal and deep. Well, she moved as well as her upper body would allow her. The bed creaked, the rails clinked, and somewhere in the distance a clock chimed. He didn’t hear it. He heard only her breath, her gasps, the way she moaned his name like it was the only word she knew.

”You’re so close,” he murmured against her ear. ”I can feel you—you’re almost there—”

She cried out as she came undone, her body clenching around him, and he followed her over the edge, his own release shuddering through him. He buried his face in her neck, her hair, breathing her in. She was everywhere—the scent of her, the heat of her, the way she held him so close he could barely breathe.

They lay there, tangled together, their hearts beating in sync. The lamp flickered, the wax pooled low, and the room was quiet except for their breathing.

”I think,” she said, her voice hoarse, ”I think that was the best decision I’ve ever made.”

”Which part?”

”All of it. Marrying you. Letting you carry me to the tub. Not stopping you just now.” She pressed a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. ”Every part.”

”Are you in pain?” he said, looking at her lower body.

It had not been as bad as he thought it would be.

Her eyes filled, and for a terrible moment he thought he’d said the wrong thing. Then she laughed, wet and disbelieving, and kissed him with a fierceness that stole his breath.

”You may be my undoing,” she said. ”God help me, you may be my undoing.”

He pulled her closer, burying his face in her hair, and held on. The night stretched around them, quiet and warm, and he let himself believe—for the first time in his life—that he’d found something worth fighting for.