My Crippled Husband Is a Secret Billionaire

The next morning, the atmosphere in the kitchen was frigid.

Henderson came in, his left hand wrapped in an ACE bandage.

"I'm afraid I've sprained my wrist, Madam," Henderson lied smoothly. "Old injury acting up."

Stella looked up from her coffee. "Oh no. Do you need a doctor?"

"No, just rest," Henderson said. "But... I cannot assist Master Julian with his therapy bath this morning."

Stella choked on her coffee. "His... bath?"

Julian wheeled into the kitchen at that moment. He looked at Henderson, eyes narrowing. What are you doing?

"I can manage with a wet towel," Julian said coldly.

"The doctor was very specific, Sir," Henderson insisted. "You need the hot water circulation for your legs. To prevent further issues."

Stella looked at Julian. She saw the muscle ticking in his jaw. She thought it was pride. She thought he was embarrassed to be naked in front of her.

"I'll do it," Stella said. She stood up, putting on her 'brave face'. "We're married. It's fine. It's just... bodies."

Scene: The Master Bathroom.

Steam filled the air. The room was tiled in black marble, slick and hot.

Julian was in the tub. He was wearing thick, black compression leggings that went from his waist to his ankles. He claimed they were for "circulation," but in reality, they were to hide the muscle definition in his legs.

Stella tried not to stare at his chest. But it was impossible.

His upper body was magnificent. Broad shoulders, defined pectorals, a six-pack that looked carved from stone.

"You work out... with your arms?" Stella squeaked.

"Upper body strength is all I have," Julian lied, gripping the edges of the tub. He was terrified. Not of her seeing him, but of his body reacting to her.

Stella wetted a large sea sponge. "Lean forward."

She touched his back.

Julian flinched. Her touch was soft, but it sent an electric shock down his spine.

She began to scrub. Circular motions. Shoulders. Neck. Down the spine.

Julian closed his eyes. Think about baseball. Think about the quarterly earnings report. Think about tax law.

"Is the water too hot?" Stella asked, noticing his breathing had stopped.

"No," Julian grated out.

She moved the sponge to his chest. Her fingers grazed his nipple.

Julian's breath hitched.

She moved lower. Toward his stomach. Then she reached for his leg.

"I need to wash the leggings," she said innocently. "Or... under them?"

Julian felt the blood rushing south. He was a healthy, twenty-eight-year-old man, and his beautiful wife was touching him in a steaming bath. His "paralysis" didn't stop erections.

If she touched his thigh, she would feel the muscle tense. She would feel the heat. The compression gear could only hide so much.

"Stella," he warned.

She placed her hand on his thigh.

Snap.

Julian's control broke. He grabbed her wrist before she could squeeze. His grip was bruising.

He splashed water violently, covering his lap.

"That's enough!" he roared.

Stella jumped back, dropping the sponge. "What? Did I hurt you?"

"I said GET OUT!" Julian shouted, his voice echoing off the marble. "Leave me alone! I can finish!"

He needed her gone before he humiliated himself. Before he proved he wasn't the invalid he claimed to be.

Stella's eyes filled with tears. She looked at him—at the anger in his face—and thought she had disgusted him.

She turned and ran out of the bathroom, slamming the door.

Julian slammed his fist against the water.

"Damn it," he whispered. He looked down at his body, fully betrayed by his own biology.

He sank lower into the water, miserable and aroused, listening to his wife cry in the hallway.