“I should have been there,” he said, voice tight. “During your recovery. After.”
“Yes,” I agreed simply. “You should have.”
His hand stilled, and for a moment I feared I’d pushed too far. But then he lifted his palm to cup my face, guiding my eyes back to his.
“You’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he said, with an intensity that made my chest constrict.
I tried to smile, but my lips trembled with the effort. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean to people I care about.” His thumb brushed away a stupid little tear that had escaped my eye. “I don’t give a shit about scars, Brooke.”
The simplicity of his acceptance cracked something open inside me. For years, I’d hidden beneath high collars and scarves, avoiding intimacy, building walls between myself and anyone who might see the physical evidence of that day.
Since Owen.
“A colleague I worked with after Afghanistan saw them once. I was changing after a long shift, and I was in a tank top. He…” I swallowed hard, not wanting Rav to know the full truth—that Owen and I had been dating, that his reaction when he saw my scars had put a swift end to that relationship. “After that, I never wanted anyone to see them again.”
I also didn’t add that Owen’s rejection had convinced me I would always be alone, because no one could want me like this.
After Rav ghosted me and Owen rejected me, I’d accepted what I’d already feared: I wasn’t worth staying for.
Rav’s eyes darkened. “Come here.”
He yanked me against him, and our lips met again. This kiss was deeper, knowing, tinged with a tenderness that made my eyes sting. I found myself pressing closer, desperate to feel his skin against mine.
“I can’t undo what I did,” he said between kisses, his cock hardening between us. “But can you forgive me?”
“Yes,” I moaned.
He pulled back with a half-chuckle. “Was that for forgiveness or for something else?”
“Oh god, Rav.” I clutched at his hair, not needing to think about my decision. “It’s for everything.”
A wicked grin spread across his face, and we moved toward the bed together, his hands steady on my waist. When the backs of my legs hit the mattress, I sat, pulling him down with me. The weight of him pressing me into the soft surface felt both new and achingly familiar.
When he lowered his mouth to mine again, I met him halfway. He kissed a path from my lips to my jaw, then lower to my neck. When he reached the beginning of my scarring, he didn’t hesitate or pull away.
He slid my bra strap down my shoulder. I tensed, afraid despite his earlier acceptance. This was different—more intimate, more exposed.
“I want to see all of you. But only if you want me to.”
I nodded, unable to form words.
He eased the cup of my bra down, exposing my scarred breast. For a moment, he simply looked, as though proving howlittle it bothered him. Then he lowered his head, pressing his lips to the damaged skin, no differently than he’d done years ago.
A sob caught in my throat as tears spilled down my cheeks. No one had touched me like this since he had—like I was still whole, still desirable. Like my scars were simply another part of me.
His mouth found my nipple, and a jolt of sensation shot through me. The nerve endings there had been spared, and the contrast between numbness and acute sensitivity ricocheted through my body. His arm tightened around me, supporting me as I arched against him.
“You’re perfect,” he murmured against my skin. “Exactly as you are.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to stop the tears before I embarrassed myself. I’d forgotten what it felt like to be wanted. If I let myself believe this, if I let myself hope, and he left again… I might never recover.
What if Rav was the only one who would ever treat me like this? What if it was only tonight?
His hand slid down my side, pausing at the button of my pants. “Is this okay?”
I nodded, helping him with the button and zipper. “You’re sure?”
