His eyes meet mine, dark and intense. “You’re the first person who’s ever said that and made me believe it.”
“Good,” I tell him. “Just likeIgave you a tool. But it wasyouwho saved the company. Orwillsave the company. It doesn’t matter if I get credit, no matter how much I gripe about it. None of that matters. Nor does it take away from who you are, or what you’ve achieved.”
He stares at me now, his gaze hungry, and just like that the air between us shifts, becoming electric.
“You’re staring,” I murmur.
“You’re worth staring at,” he replies. His eyes darken. “Bree.”
Just my name. But the way he says it... like a question and an answer at the same time.
I lean in and his mouth finds mine.
23
Nico
Her mouth is soft against mine. Warm.
I pull her closer, one hand sliding into her hair, the other at her waist. She makes a small sound against my mouth.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard. She’s flushed, her lips swollen, and she’s looking at me like I’ve just said something profound instead of simply kissing her like a drowning man.
“You’re thinking loudly,” she announces.
I frown. “Am I?”
“Your jaw does this thing.” She reaches up, touches the scarred tissue along my cheekbone. “Right here. It tightens when you’re overthinking.”
She shifts again, and my t-shirt rides up her thighs.
Fuck.
She has no idea what she does to me. Or maybe she does. Maybe that’s the point.
“Can I ask you something?” she says.
“You’re going to anyway,” I tell her.
Her mouth quirks. “Does it still hurt? The scarring?”
I consider the question. Most people mean the physical when they ask that. The nerve damage, the skin grafts that didn’t take properly, the way cold weather makes the tissue ache.
“Not physically,” I say. “Not anymore.”
She waits. Like she knows there’s more coming and she’s willing to sit here all night until I give it to her.
“The emotional scarring is a different story,” I admit. “Takes longer to heal. Sometimes I think it never does. You just learn to build prosthetics for the parts of yourself that got broken. Functional replacements. They work well enough that most people can’t tell the difference.”
“I can tell the difference,” she states.
“I know.” That’s the terrifying part. She sees right through every protective barrier I’ve constructed. “You’ve always been able to tell.”
She rises up on her knees, facing me on the couch. My t-shirt is huge on her.
Mine.
The possessive satisfaction that curls through me is almost embarrassing.
