"We can keep going. It's a perk," he says. "I'm not exactly done with you yet."
"Oh," I say stupidly. Apparently, that's another thing about a younger man. They leave you so drunk with lust that your IQ drops by half.
"Oh," he says. "I don't think I'm going to get tired of hearing that come out of your mouth." He bends down, slides his hand behind my knees, and just like that I'm swept off my feet. Literally.
He carries me upstairs without another word and deposits me firmly on the bed. When I slide my hands protectively over my stomach, embarrassed to be under his gaze, he moves them.
"Don’t do that," he says. "Don't cover yourself up. There's no reason for it."
"I have lots of reasons," I say. Like the fact that the man who is currently throwing one leg over me, straddling me, has abs that are so perfect, they look airbrushed on. Coupled with an ass that's hard as a rock. And if he has an extra ounce of fat anywhere on his body, I'm not sure I can tell.
"Such as? Let's hear those reasons," he says, glancing down meaningfully at his erection. “Because obviously, I have zero problems with your body."
"I have mom tummy going on," I say.
"Oh, yeah? Move your hands."
"No."
"Move your hands, Red," he says. "Right now."
When I move them, he takes the edges of my shirt and slides it over my head, and then looks at me carefully, his eyes running over me.
"Happy now?" I ask, my voice trembling. I feel more vulnerable than I have in ages. It's one thing to lose my inhibitions in the kitchen, but it's different now, lying here in my bed with him.
"I'm not sure," he says, pursing his lips. He cocks his head to the side. "I need to have a closer look."
He slides down, hovering just above my abdomen, applying kisses to my stomach, across the middle, the place where no amount of exercise seems to touch. "This part is definitely sexy," he whispers, pressing his hardness against my leg for added effect.
"You're just saying that because you want to get laid."
"I definitely want to get laid," he says, running his finger along my stomach, tracing the stretch marks that line the sides of my abdomen, the aftereffects of my pregnancy with Olivia, and it makes me cringe.
"Stop," I say softly.
"You're uncomfortable."
"Of course I am."
"Why?" he asks.
I laugh. "You wouldn't understand. You're perfect. There's nothing wrong with you."
"Nothing wrong with me," he repeats. Now it's his turn to laugh. "You're delusional."
"There isn't. Well, mental issues aside," I say, giggling when he narrows his eyes at me. "Physically, you're completely perfect."
He rolls his eyes. "So you don't think this shit is kind of awesome?" he asks, running his finger along a stretch mark.
"Seriously, it's a total turn-off," I say. "Please stop."
The expression on his face shifts, and he looks at me, genuinely puzzled. “Are women really bothered by those?"
"Are you seriously asking me that question?"
"They're fucking cool," he says. "Do you not get that?"
I laugh, the sound bitter. "No. I do not get that."
He slides his hand down over my abdomen, then farther, between my legs. My body immediately responds to him, shutting down the objections I have and rendering me mute. "They're like scars," he murmurs.
"Oh yeah, ‘cause everyone knows scars are fucking sexy."
Luke sits up abruptly, turning around so that his back is to me. "See that?" he asks.
All I can see is his back, a mass of rippling muscles that I can't help but run my hand over, my fingertips tracing a little path across him. "What am I supposed to be looking at here?"
"I have my own scars."
Then I notice it, the scar that runs along his back, at least six inches long. It's faded, barely noticeable to the eye, but I trace the length with my finger. "What happened?"
"It's an old scar," he tells me. "From a belt."
His words hit me with all of the impact of a freight train, and I feel like a complete tool, griping about my stupid stretch marks. "I – I'm sorry."
Luke shrugs. "I wasn't showing you to get your sympathy," he says. "It happened a long time ago. Water under the fucking bridge and all that. I'm just saying, we all have scars. Some are on the inside, some are on the outside. Those are a part of who you are, your life story – and part of Olivia's life story. So I think they're pretty fucking cool."
I swallow hard, struck by the weight of his words. "You're pretty wise for –"
He laughs. "For a jock?"
"That's not what I was going to say." I was going to say for a twenty-six-year-old, which is just as bad. And I guess that's his point. I study his face carefully, the way his jawline is set, his expression serious, and I wonder for a moment if I've underestimated him.
His fingers return to my abdomen, tracing along my stretch marks, and this time I don't stop him. He moves lower, lingering a moment, teasing me before he lightly touches his fingertips to my clit.
"Are you going to tell me where you got yours?" I ask, my voice soft.
"No," he says, bringing his mouth down on mine.