My heart cracked the moment I learned Ethan had sprained both wrists. All I craved was to cradle him through every ache, to shield him from the smallest discomfort. He had earned that tenderness. I would move mountains for him—even relieve the urgent pressure building between his legs, since those casts left him unable to satisfy himself. Young men his age burn with restless hunger, forever chasing release. And I knew exactly how to deliver it. My husband once reached the edge from my glance alone. I would offer any part of myself he required, draw him into shared baths whenever he wished, keep his skin fresh and smooth. The glide of lathered fingers along his rigid length would send sparks through us both. If the suds turned treacherous and I slipped, landing astride him… well, that would be fine too. He could remain nestled inside me for however long he needed. After I finished, those casts would feel like freedom rather than chains.
The realization struck the instant he limped through the doorway, arms encased in thick plaster from knuckles to elbows. Ethan—twenty-two, lean and powerful from endless hours on his board—looked both wrecked and irresistibly vulnerable. Tousled dark strands framed his face; his jaw tightened against the medication haze. Those bulky wraps rendered him utterly dependent. A secret pulse fluttered low in my belly before I even greeted him.
"Sweetheart, what on earth happened?" I breathed, hurrying forward in my loose silk robe. The sash had been left deliberately slack; I had spent the afternoon drifting through the empty house, already imagining the three-month overseas assignment that had just pulled my husband away. Three months of quiet rooms and stolen hours. Three months of tending to Ethan alone.
"Board hit a crack in the sidewalk," he mumbled, grimacing as I steered him toward the sofa. "Docs say both wrists and forearms are out for at least six weeks. No gripping, no lifting—nothing."
I pressed my lips together to hide the spark of delight. Six weeks. Ideal.
My phone buzzed—Mark calling from Singapore's departure lounge. I switched to speaker so Ethan could listen.
"Hey, love," my husband crackled through the line. "Just settled in. How's our guy holding up?"
I sank to my knees in front of Ethan, fluffing the cushion behind his neck while the robe parted just enough to reveal the shadowed curve of my chest. His gaze dipped, then jerked away as if scorched.
"He's managing," I murmured warmly. "I've got everything under control—plaster and all. Not a single worry on your end."
Mark chuckled. "That's my girl. Whatever he needs—pills, meals, help with clothes—you handle it. Best stepmother alive. Love you both."
"Love you right back," I replied, voice light, yet my attention lingered on the growing ridge beneath Ethan's gray sweats. The fabric had already begun to strain from my nearness, from the faint trace of my scent, from the gentle sway of my breasts as I shifted.
The call clicked off. Silence settled, broken only by the soft drone of the cooling system.
Ethan cleared his throat. "I… I'll figure it out somehow."
I rose unhurriedly, allowing the robe to slide fully open now that privacy wrapped around us. Beneath it lay only a scrap of black lace that scarcely veiled my smooth, bare folds. My peaks had stiffened to tight buds, flushed and eager.
"Ethan," I whispered, "your father said anything at all. And I meant every word about looking after you—completely."
His arousal jumped visibly against the cotton. He attempted to shift his legs, but the rigid casts pinned him in place. He remained exposed, helpless, the thick outline pulsing for my eyes alone.
"I'll fix dinner first," I continued, tone velvet-soft. "Then we'll freshen you up for rest. Showers are off-limits with those wraps, so a gentle wipe-down it is. I'll manage every detail."
Crimson flooded his cheeks. "Lila, really, you don't—"
"I do," I insisted, closing the distance until my bare thighs grazed his knees. "You're mine to protect. And right now, with no way to manage on your own, I step in."
I noticed his Adam's apple bob. The front of his sweats looked ready to split from the pressure. Twenty-two, flooded with youthful fire, and no outlet for six long weeks. The poor soul.
The evening unfolded gently. I spoon-fed him pasta with patient care, brushed stray sauce from his lips with my thumb, let his cast graze the swell of my breast while I held water to his mouth. Each accidental brush tightened his frame further. Each time I leaned low, offering a clear view of my rear in that flimsy thong, his breaths turned uneven.
By ten he was drained yet taut with need. I guided him to his bedroom—the guest space he had claimed after college—and had already smoothed the linens, arranged extra cushions to cradle his arms.
"Bath time, darling," I said, easing his shirt free with delicate tugs around the plaster. His torso emerged smooth and sculpted. When I drew his sweats downward, his manhood surged upward—thick, ridged, a full eight inches curving sharply, the tip already beaded with moisture. It slapped against his stomach with a damp echo.
Ethan let out a mortified groan. "God… Lila, I can't stop it."
"Never apologize for that," I soothed, tracing my lower lip with my tongue. "It's perfectly normal. You're vibrant and full of life. And you've gone untouched since the fall, haven't you?"
He nodded, eyes hazy.
I ran warm water into the adjacent tub, scented with calming lavender, then shed every stitch. At thirty-four my figure still held the sleek lines of my former modeling days: generous breasts that swayed with each step, a narrow middle flaring to rounded hips, and a rear that moved with inviting softness. My core glistened, petals swollen and gleaming.
I supported him into the water, bearing his weight since he could not steady himself. Once seated, his length rose proudly above the surface like a beacon. I slid in behind, pressing my bare chest to his back. My firm tips traced lines across his skin.
"Rest against me," I murmured. "Let me cleanse every inch."
Lathered palms glided over his pectorals, teasing the small peaks until he hissed. Lower still, across the firm plane of his stomach, until my fingers at last encircled his impressive shaft.
One languid pull. Up. Down. Suds turned every motion satin-smooth.
His head dropped back against my shoulder, a shattered sound escaping. "Jesus…"
"Easy now. I have you." I repeated the motion, firmer this time, twisting gently at the crown the way lovers adore. "Those casts forbid you from helping yourself, so I will. Morning, midday, midnight—anytime that impressive length demands relief, I'll be right beside you."
His hips bucked involuntarily. Water rippled. I maintained the steady rhythm, whispering against his ear.
"I understand the ache. Men your age stay on edge, constantly leaking, constantly restless. But you no longer need to chase shadows. Not with me here."
His girth thickened further in my grasp. The tip flushed dark. He hovered at the brink.
I paused.
A needy whine slipped from him.
"Not tonight," I teased, brushing my lips along his throat. "We're only freshening up for now. Tomorrow… we'll discover just how many times I can bring you over before the sun rises."
I completed the task—washing every hidden crease, even slipping slick digits between his cheeks until he gasped—then patted him dry with a plush towel, treating his still-pulsing arousal with reverent care.
I settled him between cool sheets, bare because clothing proved impossible. Then I pressed a gentle kiss to his brow, every inch the devoted guardian.
"Rest well, love. If you stir with need, call out. I'll come swiftly."
I left his door ajar on purpose.
An hour later the muffled sounds reached me—soft, urgent grunts from down the hall. I padded back in nothing but the robe and eased the door wider.
Ethan lay facedown, casts useless at his flanks, frantically grinding against a pillow wedged between his thighs. His hips rocked in short, frantic motions, length sliding along the fabric and leaving damp trails. Friction remained elusive. His face pressed into the mattress, cries half-smothered.
Heat surged between my own legs; I squeezed my thighs to steady myself.
I stepped fully inside, letting the robe pool at my feet. Moonlight silvered my bare skin.
"My poor boy," I crooned, climbing onto the mattress beside him. "So frantic you're rutting against bedding because I haven't yet eased that fire."
I turned him carefully onto his back. His manhood stood furious and dark, veins standing out, a glistening thread trailing onto his abdomen.
I settled astride one strong thigh, letting him feel the slick heat of my folds against his skin.
Then I leaned close, breath warm on his ear, voice thick with intent.
"I will soothe every surge that rises in you. Hands never required."
His length jerked between us, tapping my stomach.
I smiled into the shadows.
"Beginning immediately."
Both palms encircled him once more—deliberate, affectionate strokes—and I watched his gaze drift skyward.
This was merely the start.
Tomorrow I would give him a true cleansing.
And after that…
He would forget those casts had ever existed.
End of chapter : 01.