It was his fault, she wanted to say. He was the one who did it to her. She could not take responsibility for something so unfathomable.
“Get those pants off.” A brisk tug, and they were around her ankles, panties quickly following. He admired her muff, stroking her hips, moving his hands along the tender skin of her inner thighs. Her nails dug into his shoulders as he teased her mound.
“Climb up on me,” he urged. “Straddle me, knees on the bed. You are so perfect. I cannot believe you’re real.”
She swayed there unsteadily, stark naked over his fully clothed body. Her legs splayed wide, on either side of his thighs. Wide open to his gentle exploring touch.
“Take off your clothes,” she told him. “I’m going to leave a huge wet spot on your bespoke pants.”
“My dry cleaner can worry about that.”
“I insist,” she said sternly. “I can’t handle this. Me bare-assed and you with the white dress shirt, all buttoned up. I know you’ve got a mysterious plan to drive me mad with desire but those buttons are seriously bugging me.”
“It seemed like it was working for you,” he pointed out.
“To a point. I’m falling to pieces while you stay cool and composed. Give me the satisfaction of getting you disheveled. Look at you. You could be in a boardroom, closing a billion dollar deal. Not fondling a naked woman in your bedroom.”
“Not with this hard-on, I couldn’t.”
“No one would know, with that poker face,” she scoffed. “Someone could be blowing you under the table, and no one would ever know.”
His swift grin flashed. “Stimulating scenario. One more orgasm first?”
“The shirt,” she said, relentless. “Off with it.”
He was silent for a moment. “Whatever.” He undid his buttons, tossed the shirt aside.
She was shocked speechless. His torso was covered with crisscrossing scars.
He looked immensely strong, carved and cut, his massive musculature still somehow lean and economical. But scars marked his smooth olive skin, cutting through the hair on his chest and the trail down his belly. Some were in regular, squared patterns. Some were symmetrical and circular, others puckered and random like knife slashes or bullet wounds. Some looked like burns.
He waited patiently, his face somber and watchful.
Her overheated imagination started to generate images of all the possible injuries that could have caused them. She stopped. Nothing made sense. There were too many scars. They practically covered him.
“How did that happen?” she asked.
“Not all at once.” He shrugged. “Long story.”
“Were you in the military or something?”
“Something like that.”
She trailed her finger over a symmetrical cross-hatch on his upper arm. “This isn’t a random injury. But it’s not a surgical scar, either.”
“So you get to ask me personal questions about my past? With a straight face?”
“Sorry,” she murmured. “Never mind.”
“But there’s the other possibility,” he said.
“And that is?”
“Show me yours,” he said, his voice low and intent. “And I’ll show you mine. I will tell you the whole weird, scary story, I swear to God.”
They stared at each other. She felt so naked, but he still wasn’t satisfied. He wanted every part of her completely bare.
So they had something in common. They both carried the marks of their suffering. His were just more visible than hers. “Never mind,” she whispered.
His big shoulders lifted. “All right. So, do you still want to do this?”
She was confused. “Of course,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I?”
His eyes slid away. “The scars.” He sounded uncertain. “They can be a turn-off.”
“They’re not,” she said. “Not at all. We all have scars, of one kind or another.”
“It freaks some women out. That was why . . .” His voice trailed off. “I just wanted to make you come again, before the big reveal. In case it all ended right there.”
It squeezed her heart to imagine a guy like him feeling insecure. She kissed the jut of his cheekbone. “I’m not turned off,” she said. “Curious, yes. Sorry you suffered all that damage. But not turned off in the least.”
“Good.” He grabbed her hands, kissed them, and placed them on his shoulders. “Then hold on to me. I want to make you come again.”
His erection prodded her thigh through the fabric of his pants. Her hands skittered nervously all over his hot, bare skin, the rough ridges and bumps, afraid to land anywhere, as if he were charged with electricity and every touch was a jittery shock. He stroked her with skill, then got bolder, opening her as he caressed her clitoris with his thumb. A low growl vibrated in his chest as he sank his fingers inside her and found her slippery and drenched.
“All wet,” he muttered against her throat. “Later, after you’re more relaxed, I want to go down on you and do this with my tongue. For hours.”