Fire? On mynaked body?
“Shh, love. Not here.” His big hands slide under my cloak, cupping my ass. “Never in front of anyone.” He’s kissing me greedily, his tongue sliding through the seam of my lips, movingme against his extremely large erection until I’m loose-limbed and a little breathless. “Do ye trust me?” he asks again, cupping my face in his hands.
“Of course.” I say it without thinking, but it’s true. Whole heartedly true.
There’s another long hallway with a series of black doors. Wallace leads me confidently to the third one, which opens to a similar platform. It’s quiet in here, soundproofed from the moans and cries outside the door, with low lighting and soft rugs underfoot. Ropes and blindfolds hang in neat rows on the wall, along with floggers and spreader bars.
“We dinnae need any of those. I’ll not tie ye down.Thistime,” he smiles, so hungry. “This is about ye feeling safe enough to be still for me.” He turns me, carefully coiling my hair and putting it on top of my head, fastening it with a few hairpins.
My heart turns to lead in my chest. If he takes off my cloak, he’ll see my back. He’ll see everything. I clutch the two sides of the fabric together, bowing my head. His hands stop, resting on my shoulders.
“Complete trust, remember, my wife?” He steps in front of me and pulls off his cloak, turning his back.
Oh.
Oh…
Knotted scar tissue covers his back in cruel lashes of rough, raised skin. Some of it is bumpy, with harsh divots carved into the surface, and streaks of white tissue, pulled tight. The scarring runs from his neck to waist, curving around the left side of his ribcage.
One of Dad’s foremen caught his arm on fire at one of the cannabis warehouses. I went to see him at the hospital with Dad, because Marlena refused to.
I know what burn scars look like. This, though… It’s as if Wallace’s back had been pressed to the burning walls of Hell, but he’d fought his way out.
The scars are covered with tattoos.
His back iscoveredin fire. Brilliantly colored, horrifyingly detailed tattooed flames soar up his back. There are faces in the inferno, mocking, sly faces distorted by the heat. It’s violent. It’s scary and heartbreaking and beautiful. It spreads up to his shoulders, with a curl of flame going up his neck.
Wallace stands utterly still, letting me look, though he stiffens when I take a hesitant step forward.
“May I touch you?”
He clears his throat. “Aye.”
Leaning forward, I put my cheek against his back, feeling the uneven surface against my skin. I kiss the faces in the flames, each one. I kiss his shoulder blades and rising on to my tiptoes, I kiss the back of his neck, exposed by his bent head.
With a sigh that sounds more like a shudder, my husband turns around, his amber gaze steady.
He showed you his… you show him yours, Scarlett.
My fingers are clumsy, shaking as I open the clasp that keeps my cloak closed. Wallace already piled my hair on top of my head so my cover, my protection is gone.
My cloak drops, I turn my back to him and I show him mine.
I know what he sees. The vicious crisscrossing of scars over my back, a starburst of them spiraling brutally out from my left shoulder blade. It’s been two and a half years since the car crash and some of them are still as red and irritated as the day the surgeon stitched me up. The shattered glass from the rear window shot into my back like bullets when the semi-truck smashed into us, jagged shards still buried in my skin when the EMTs ripped my car door open.
Every time the Wicked Steps called me ‘Scar’ with those ugly grins, they knew I remembered every detail of that night.
“May I touch ye, love?”
I give a half chuckle, half sob. “Aye.”
He doesn’t kiss the scars. He runs his tongue over them, delicately, the pointed tip stroking and tracing over each red line. It cools my scars and makes the skin around them warm, almost hot. When he drops to his knees to lick over the two slashes at the base of my spine, I flail blindly back, wanting to touch him.
Wallace catches my hand and kisses it. He kisses the globes of my ass, and makes his way up my spine and by the time he reaches my shoulder, my head is turned, my mouth desperately seeking his.
This kiss is different from all the others. We share breath, and pain, and relief, then it turns into need.
“How do ye feel,Luaith Bheag,my Little Cinder?” He takes my chin, holding me steady, his gaze searching my face.
