In His Arms: A Nature of Desire Series Novel Read online

  Summary

  Strength is in a man’s will, not his body…

  Rory has grown up in a small North Carolina town. In high school, he was the popular athlete. When he graduated, he saw himself running the general store his father started. Maybe eventually getting married to one of the pretty cheerleaders who liked him in school, having kids. His siblings can live big lives in big cities. He’s not that complicated.

  Then an accident puts him in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. And Daralyn, a neighbor with a horrific past, comes to live with his family. Everything is suddenly a lot less simple. Because the way Rory wants her is keeping him up at night.

  He wants her to belong to him. He wants to command her, protect her. Hell, he can barely say it to himself. He wants to dominate her. The craving is a primal drumbeat in the center of his soul.

  How does he deal with that? Especially when her need to trust is so desperate, and her eyes are so full of hunger for what love should be. But he’ll figure it out. He’s going to make sure Daralyn finds everything she needs in his arms.

  Join the characters of the award-winning Nature of Desire series as they find love, through the infinite ways Domination and submission can be expressed.

  In His Arms

  A Nature of Desire Series Novel

  Joey W. Hill

  In His Arms

  A Nature of Desire Novel - Book #11

  Copyright © 2020 Joey W. Hill

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Cover design by W. Scott Hill

  SWP Digital & Print Edition publication September 2020 by Story Witch Press, 452 Mattamushkeet Dr., Little River, South Carolina 29566, USA

  This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Story Witch Press, 452 Mattamushkeet Dr., Little River, SC 29566.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  The publisher and author(s) acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned in this book.

  The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. Reader discretion is advised.

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-951544-04-1

  Print ISBN: 978-1-951544-05-8

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Ice Queen

  Chapter One

  Afterword

  Ready for More?

  About the Author

  Also by Joey W. Hill

  Acknowledgments

  Part of the joy of writing relationships in romance is the ability to “idealize” some aspects of a love story. However, the best romances know when to tap into the realities of falling in love. As such, it was vital to me to represent a paraplegic Dom hero in a way that respects the real-life paraplegic men out there, navigating their own relationships.

  To do that, I had invaluable help. Thank you to the team of readers—some disabled themselves, others who were caregivers or had access to family members in wheelchairs—who reviewed parts of this story or answered questions. A special thanks to Jeanne for letting me take almost verbatim her thought about Rory realizing that being a sexual Dominant is something that transcends the body, something any submissive paying attention will recognize (smile).

  Thank you also to the disabled people who have crafted videos to help others like them learn to navigate the daily how-tos of life in a wheelchair. These videos were an incredible resource for an author. While the written word done right can paint an unforgettable picture, for practical skills, nothing beats a visual. These videos also kept me from badgering my reader team with endless minutiae like: “how would you take off your pants?” “how would you open a door?” etc. A particular thanks to Richard of Wheels2Walking, as his videos became a key resource for Rory and Daralyn’s story.

  Daralyn presented her own kind of challenge. I thank my physician resource who answered the questions I had about her that can’t really be posted online without law enforcement taking a much closer look at you, lol – but I’m very glad they would, to confirm I’m simply an author looking for accuracy in her story.

  I hope you all fall in love with Rory and Daralyn. However, as always, any shortcomings in the story are entirely the fault of the author – not those who helped me bring Rory and Daralyn’s story to life!

  Chapter One

  She’d been getting paler by the hour. As her departure time drew closer, he was worried she might pass out.

  Rory pushed his chair a few inches to the right. Just enough to study her from his vantage point at the front counter without looking like that was what he was doing.

  Daralyn stood before the mirror in the back of the store, where they sold outerwear and work shoes. Someone else would think she was fussing over her appearance, but he knew she rarely looked at herself.

  He noticed everything about her. Every emotion transmitted through body language—a change in the angle of her chin, the light of her eyes. The rate of her pulse, the tiny beat of it in that pocket at the base of her throat, and how her breath made the slight curves of her breasts rise and fall.

  Last Christmas, he’d kissed her under the mistletoe, in front of his well-meaning family who’d engineered the event. He remembered every detail of that, too. One of her nervous, chapped hands had fallen onto his biceps, her fingers tightening. He’d wanted to pull her into his lap, right there in front of everyone. Not because he wanted to disrespect her, but because he ached to do what a man with two functioning legs could do. Hold his girl flush against him, cradle her in his arms as he kissed her. Feel the give of her body as she trusted his strength enough, wanted it enough, to melt into him.

  Not long before that Christmas, when he had thoughts like that about her, he’d put them away, appalled at himself. Since she was fifteen, she’d mostly lived with his family. But then Marcus had pointed out the obvious, and it had stuck to his brain cells like gum.

  Marcus was his brother’s…husband. Yeah, Rory was small-town enough that saying it, even in his head, still felt weird. But Thomas was happy, and Marcus was a decent guy. When he wasn’t being a prick. So Rory was cool with his brother being gay, though he still reserved his right to block any images in his
head of guys getting it on with each other.

  A couple days after that Christmas, Rory had been in the driveway in front of the house, watching his mom and Daralyn say goodbye to Rory’s sister, Les, who was headed back to medical school. Marcus was standing beside him.

  “You know she’s not your sister, right?” he said.

  “I’m pretty sure she is,” Rory responded. “There are pictures of me holding her as a baby.”

  “You know how easy it is to head slap a guy in a wheelchair?” When Marcus swept a palm toward him to demonstrate, Rory lifted a quick fist to block, and then cocked it to strike.

  “About as easy as it is for one to punch you in the nuts.”

  Marcus dropped his hand with a chuckle, but then he sobered. “You know I meant Daralyn. She’s twenty. You can treat her as a woman, Rory. A woman you want, with a man’s hunger.”

  Marcus didn’t know everything going through Rory’s head when he was around her. At least he thought he didn’t. Because then Marcus demonstrated the uncanny insight Thomas had complained about, more than once.

  “When you think about her, I’m betting a couple things happen in your head and your cock.”

  At Rory’s narrow look, Marcus shrugged and adopted a Southern drawl. “The two are connected like biscuits and gravy, boy.”

  “Asshole,” Rory muttered.

  A slight smile played on Marcus’s mouth, but his intent green eyes remained fixed on Rory. “You want to protect her like it’s the only thing in life that matters. And you want to make her yours in ways that you’re worried are wrong. They’re not, and when you want to know why, you’ll come find me to talk it out. Don’t be proud. Desire can cover a fuck-ton of ground, but wanting to fly won’t keep you from crashing if you don’t learn how a plane works. Even if you’re willing to risk yourself, you can’t risk your passenger. She’s everything, right?”

  Coming back to the present, Rory pensively tapped his push rim. He knew about being out of control, not having enough knowledge about what was ahead, and how crazy that could make a guy. But whatever this was, it was still a jumble between his head, his gut, and yes, his sexual desire for her. Even as, at other times, it was like a straight line between two points.

  Biscuits and gravy. Shit.

  He pushed out from behind the counter. “Daralyn.”

  She turned, gave him an absent, jittery smile, and immediately came his way. Her glossy hair, the rich brown of a house wren’s back, was in a ponytail, the bundle of natural curls bobbing against her exposed neck as she moved. Depending on the light, her hazel eyes had touches of blue or amber scattered through the golden-green irises.

  The blue shirt she wore had a scoop neckline and lace band at the bottom that hugged her narrow hips in jeans. A feminine ensemble that enhanced her body without being intentionally sexy.

  She wasn’t girl-next-door. She was fragile angel, bewildered by the world in which she’d been dropped, like a puppy tied in a sack with a stone weight.

  He knew that kind of anger on her behalf wasn’t useful, but her life had been a total shitstorm up until she was fifteen. When her father died, God rot him, and her uncle took off shortly thereafter, their closely knit rural North Carolina community had realized, to its shame, what had been happening in that rundown house for years. But until Daralyn came to live with them, even Rory’s mother, Elaine, who’d been first to notice the situation, hadn’t realized the worst of it.

  Some predators knew how to shape their victims to add to their camouflage. Her father and uncle had fucking excelled at that.

  Her father must have been the brains, though, since the uncle had been caught a year later in Roanoke Rapids, assaulting a young girl within a block of her school. Rory kept hoping the son of a bitch would be killed in prison before his seven-year sentence was up.

  “Do you need something before I go?” Daralyn asked. She had a breathy voice. When she had to raise her volume, her gaze would dart back and forth like a startled deer. “I can… I mean, I don’t have to go. I’m sure the first day is orientation, really, and…”

  “You’re going.”

  Her attention flitted to his face and then over his shoulder, somewhere else. She’d meet and hold Thomas’s gaze, or his sister’s. His mother’s. But not Marcus’s. And not Rory’s. Not without a different level of effort.

  He couldn’t say why that was significant, but a primal part of him responded to it, tightening his heart in his chest. He also realized he’d said the words not just as encouragement, but as a command.

  You want to make her yours in ways that you think might be wrong. They’re not, and when you want to know why, you’ll come find me to talk it out...

  He was losing his mind to some weirdness Marcus had planted there. He tried easing his tone, no matter that it felt like he was backing away from something important, something she actually needed. He gestured to her. “C’ mere. I have something for you.”

  He liked seeing the curiosity in her eyes. With how quiet she was, some people thought she wasn’t smart. But since she’d started working here, she’d learned everything about running his family’s hardware and general store. She knew where every item was and could give helpful guidance to customers, whether it was about how much grain to feed a horse, or what kind of tool was needed for a home or farm repair.

  When they’d decided to employ her, at first they thought she wasn’t going to work out. She wouldn’t ask them any questions, though she was clearly anxious and frustrated when she didn’t know something. Then Thomas told her straight out, “Daralyn, the more questions you ask, the more you learn from Rory and me, or Mom, the better you’ll be at this.”

  She’d mulled that over, a frown creasing her brow. “I’ll be more helpful to you?”

  Thomas started to speak, and Rory knew he was going to assure her she’d have a job no matter what, but some part of him knew that fear wasn’t why she was asking the question. Rory spoke up before his older brother got it out.

  “Yes. Tons more helpful.”

  She hadn’t hesitated to ask a question ever since.

  As Rory leaned back to reach behind the counter, her gaze slid over his upper body, the stretch of his T-shirt over his chest and shoulders. Even though she was quick to turn her eyes elsewhere when she noted his attention, her cheeks pinkened.

  Gaining weight and spread was almost inevitable when a guy ended up in a chair, so much so the first wheelchair was often made wider to allow for it. He’d been an athlete before his accident. Over time, he’d built himself back to prime shape through adaptive sports, lifting at the gym, and religious dedication to the fucking hell of never-ending PT. He was never gladder for his commitment to all that than when he saw her sneaking those looks.

  He had a recumbent bike he operated with his arms, and his weekly workouts included marathons on the county roads. Neighbors would shout encouragement as he passed their homes. His few old high school buddies who still lived in the area would come by in their pickups and razz him, pretend like they were going to nudge him off into a ditch.

  Fuck, he loved those guys.

  “Since you’ll be at school from four to nine,” he said to her, “you’ll need dinner.”

  “You made me dinner?” Her eyes widened.

  He snorted. “Yeah, if I wanted to poison you. Mom made it. I provided the lunch box.”

  His mother was a feeder, and she liked to cook. She particularly liked to feed Daralyn, who’d been skin and bones when she’d come to them. She’d filled out some, in nice ways, but she was still an indifferent eater.

  He’d figured out at least one food she liked, though. His contribution to the lunch box was three miniature Reese’s peanut butter cups. He’d tucked them next to the small container of soup and half a sandwich on homemade bread. Mom would have given her way more, but they’d all learned they couldn’t give Daralyn too much. It seemed to overwhelm her, and she’d eat nothing. But she’d tackle small amounts.

  She’d find
out about the contents later. Right now she was enchanted by the lunch box.

  “Holly Hobbie,” she said, cradling the beat-up 1979 metal container. “Where did you find it?”

  “Greenwald Reardon’s place.” Greenwald ran an old antique and junk shop off the interstate.

  “I love it.” She gazed at the blue bonneted girl in a patchwork dress, standing in a field, holding a fistful of feathery wheat grass. “Thank you. I’ll be sure and thank your mother for making me dinner. That was really nice.”

  Her smile was what had convinced Rory that Daralyn was an angel. It lit up every dark place he had inside him. As she took the box from his hands, he made sure their fingers brushed, just to feel the little quiver in them, see the quick flick of her lashes toward him.

  His feelings weren’t a saving-the-damsel-in-distress thing, either. Hell, sometimes he wanted to drop on his knees to her, feel her arms around him, because he was pretty damn sure she’d survived something none of the rest of them could. It fucking awed him.

  “That girl’s smile is God’s miracle,” his mother had murmured once.

  Rory didn’t have his mother’s faith, not by a long shot, but he couldn’t argue with that one. He’d been told it was a miracle he hadn’t died when the tractor rolled over him. He hadn’t felt that way at first. Truth, he’d been a little bitch about it all, wallowing in his own pity. Which he’d learned was normal, a stages of grief thing. But Daralyn’s smile made him ashamed of indulging in even a second of that shit.