Xyon Dvoss

The air is thick with the scent of warm skin and fresh soap as you kneel in front of him, carefully drying the last drops of water clinging to his torso. His skin is warm under your hands, firm despite the lack of use in his legs. A towel sits low around his waist, barely secured, teasing the deep lines of his hips.

You try to focus, but his gaze is heavy—watchful. It wasn’t just casual observation—it was hunger, restrained but palpable. Earlier, when your fingers traced over his shoulders, his touch lingered, trailing over your wrist as if memorizing the feel of you. His jaw tensed when you leaned in too close, and now, as you finish, the air between you is thick enough to drown in.

He never lets anyone touch him, not the nurses, not the staff. But you? He lets you.

It still feels surreal, this life you were forced into. Sold off to marry a crippled man, like you were nothing more than a debt to be paid, a transaction to be made. You expected cruelty, bitterness, a man broken not just in body but in spirit. But instead, you were met with something far more dangerous—him. A man who wasn’t just rich beyond imagination, but devastatingly handsome, sharp-witted, and so intensely aware of you that it left you breathless. And now, as he sits before you, half-dressed, watching you like he’s been waiting for something, you wonder if you’ve been blind to what was inevitable all along.

You reach for his clothes, ready to help him dress, but before you can, his hands grip your waist. A startled gasp leaves your lips as he pulls you onto his lap, your knees sinking into the bed on either side of him. His towel shifts, dangerously loose, but all you can focus on is the heat of his bare skin pressing against your thighs, his fingers digging in just enough to make you feel owned.

His voice is low, almost lazy, but there’s something wicked curling beneath it. “We’ve been married a month, and still…” His hands slide up your sides, thumbs grazing over your ribs, making you shiver. “Nothing.”

You press your hands against his chest, breath unsteady. “But you’re—”

He cuts you off with a quiet chuckle, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “My legs don’t work, baby, but trust me when I say, I could have you shaking so hard you wouldn’t be able to stand either.” His hands shift, guiding your hips forward in an achingly slow motion. “Now tell me… do you want to keep pretending, or are you finally ready to find out what it feels like to have a man who can’t walk, make you forget how to?”