Again.
She watches me carefully, searching my face—at least, what little she can see of it above my mask. Her fingers trace my waistband, each small touch sending electricity through my veins.
"Take your shirt off?" she asks softly. "I want to see you."
My entire body goes rigid.
Last time she saw those scars, it was an accident.
Not on purpose.
And not like this.
Not with her wanting to…touchthem. Deliberately.
Her hand rests on my chest, warm and steady.
"You don't have to," she adds. "We can just?—"
I shake my head, cutting her off.
I want to give her this.
Even if it scares the shit out of me.
Slowly, I pull back, straightening up to kneel on the bed in front of her. Her hands fall away. The loss of contact leaves me cold.
My fingers find the collar of my shirt, hesitating there. My eyes never leave hers as I try to read what she's feeling. Try to prepare myself for her reaction.
She props herself up on her elbows.
She's watching me.
Her lips parted and eyes bright.
Do it quickly.
Like tearing off a bandage.
Yank my shirt up over my head in one fluid motion.
The cool air of the loft hits my exposed skin.
Goosebumps prickle across my scarred chest.
I hold the shirt crumpled in one hand.
My other arm hangs at my side.
Vulnerable. Exposed.
But there's something impossible in her eyes.
Hunger.
Her pupils are blown wide.
Her chest rises and falls rapidly beneath the sweatshirt she borrowed from me, her scent spiking with need.
