Eli laughed and shook his head. “Doesn’t have to be him, but it needs to be someone. Not everyone is out to get you.”
Logically, Hudson knew that. He had a team of people he trusted with his life. But he was also a man who had seen the worst of the worst humanity could offer. He had a mother who never really loved him, a father who walked away when he was a toddler, and an ex-husband who proved that in sickness and in health was just lip service.
Why would he open himself up to feel all that shit again?
His gaze fell on the little floral box of brownies, and he tried not to let himself soften. He had no time for it, and this Peyton person had no business inserting himself in his life.
Eli didn’t stick around long, and Hudson appreciated it. On days he wasn’t feeling his best, he preferred to be alone. It was the only time he could be openly vulnerable and not constantly stress about what people were thinking when they looked at him.
He spent the evening working on his laptop, the latest toy unpacked and on his lap as he went over the schematics. He wasn’t thrilled with the button placement or the sensitivity, so he started a list of adjustments that had to be made.
Although he didn’t talk openly about it, the team knew he was one of the product testers, and it was both the best and worst part of the job. He knew it was hypocritical to be embarrassed about using a sex toy for disabled men as the disabled owner of their sex toy company, but since his tumor, he felt flayed open more than not.
His doctors had seen him shaking and crying in pain. His nurses had seen him piss and shit the bed. His physical therapists had seen him hit the ground, unable to get back up on his own. Eli had seen him fall apart, screaming into the hands he pressed against his face, convinced he’d never be able to dig himself out of his hole.
The addition of people looking at him and knowing that he was trying to find a way to feel pleasure with his level of paralysis—knowing exactly what the toys were for and how he’d use them, just added to that pile of never having any sort of privacy.
So, it was in those quiet moments at home where he knew he wasn’t going to be interrupted that he could connect with his body. He didn’t need to think about his friends, or his family, or his medical team. He didn’t need to think about all the ways he was different, and how nothing would ever be the same again.
After the paperwork, Hudson grabbed the toy he’d unpacked and sanitized, then dropped it into his lap as he wheeled to his bedroom. His nightly routine was already finished so all that was left was to slide under the covers and grab his lube.
When Hudson was younger, even before he was married, he rarely masturbated. He saw it as a means of scratching an itch. It wasn’t something that ever gave him the feeling of control or freedom. That all changed after his illness, of course—and after his husband crumpled under the weight of their new reality.
After his surgery, the first time he’d come by his own hand felt like an absolute triumph. Then he’d collapsed into his pillow and let himself cry until he was sure his ability to produce tears had completely dried up. It got easier every time he touched himself after that, though. He grew bold and a little needy, and he allowed himself time and patience as he discovered all the new ways his body could feel good.
He just wished—a small, quiet wish he wasn’t about to say aloud to anyone—that he’d crack down that final wall built of fear that the first person who tried to touch him would be like his ex.
Lying on the bed, flat on his back, he turned the vibrator on, running it at full speed. His sensations were dulled below the surgery spot, enough that he felt numb in his asshole, and his body didn’t bend the way it used to, so getting to his prostate was harder now if he tried to go for it that way.
But if he let the nubs on the end of the vibrator scrape against his skin as he tucked his dick through the hole and let the round, rolling knob press right behind his balls, he could feel it. It shot white-hot sparks of pleasure through his body, making his face heat up and his mouth drop open.
His dick was still half-soft, but that didn’t matter because it was good. It wassofucking good. He pressed the button on the side, the lightest touch changing the pulsing patterns to something more erratic. It worked him up without ever tipping him over.
He kept at it until he couldn’t take it anymore, then he hit the button again. The pulsing changed to a sharp, staccato heartbeat, the vibrations ticking up a notch, and he could feel his orgasm cresting.
With his free hand, he cupped his dick and rubbed the heel of his palm over it. It gave a valiant twitch, and a little precome dribbled from the tip. Finally, when he was ready, he moved his hand up to his nipple. With a single pinch, sending white-hot sparks of pleasure rushing up his neck and beating like a pulse in his temples, he let go. He squeezed his eyes shut, chasing his orgasm and forcing it to ripple through him, gasping as he tumbled over the edge.
He didn’t ejaculate much, but small spurts of white landed on his stomach, and that always felt like a win. He just barely managed to hit the off switch before his arms gave out, and he laid back hard, his breathing a little uneven. He took extra care in studying his body, making sure his blood pressure hadn’t skyrocketed, but he wasn’t dizzy—just satisfied.
Rolling over, he carefully eased the toy off, then dropped it into his drawer to deal with in the morning. He had a couple of wet wipes at the ready, and he cleaned up the bits of lube and small smear of come before tossing them in the little bin.
Flopping back over, Hudson’s eyes started to drift, then he heard it. The smallest little tweep before his bedroom door creaked open. He let out a sigh, then pushed himself on his elbow and listened for the littletap tap tapof bird claws on his hardwood floors.
After that was a quietshfftof a beak tugging at sheets, and then a little head poking up over the mattress. Pancake stared at him with that creepy bird look, all wide eyes and no blinking. Hudson debated on a staring contest before his body reminded him that he hadn’t just been physically busy, his emotions had also been put through the wringer and he needed some damn shuteye.
“Get comfy or get out,” he muttered irritably.
Pancake stared another minute before hopping up onto the bed, walking across his naked torso, then settling in the crook of his neck. He wanted the hate the thing—mostly because it had come from his ex—but in the late night moments of being profoundly alone, he couldn’t.
As Pancake fluffed up, then nestled down, Hudson closed his eyes and let the gentle breathing lull him to sleep.
CHAPTER TEN
Peyton’s relationshipwith coffee improved after his surgery. Or, well, the list of pros now far outweighed the list of cons anyway. Before having his guts rearranged, on his good days, Peyton had to be three feet from a bathroom if he ever decided to indulge, because the moment the last sip went down, he wouldn’t see any other room for the next long while.
And if he indulged on his bad days, it was agony for hours—to the point he’d be gasping, sweating, and swearing he’d never touch a cup again, ever in his life. Not that he ever held up that vow, but when the doctor had told him he could go back to enjoying his morning brew, Peyton was ready to sign his soul, his voice, his first born on the dotted line right then and there.
This morning, however, he was feeling…complicated. The weather was nice—a soft breeze carrying brine from the ocean, gulls flying overhead, the sun barely warm enough to heat his bare toes.