"You." My fingers find the hem of his Henley. "I want to see you."
He goes very still. I know what he's thinking—the scars. The map of violence carved into his skin. The proof of survival he's spent so long hiding.
"All of you," I clarify, tugging at the fabric. "Every scar. Every story. Every part of you that you think might scare me away."
His jaw clenches. "Charity—"
"I've seen them before." I keep my eyes on his. "And I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere."
Slowly—like he's giving me every chance to change my mind—he reaches back and pulls the henley over his head.
The lamplight catches on white ridges and puckered tissue. Slashes across his ribs. A puncture wound near his collarbone. The faded brand mark on his shoulder that I know marks him as property. As slave.
My throat tightens, but not with fear. With fury at everyone who ever hurt him. With tenderness for how he survived. With love for the man he became despite it all.
I trace the longest scar—a wicked slash across his abdomen—with reverent fingers. Feel him shudder beneath my touch.
"These are beautiful," I whisper.
"They're hideous."
"They're proof." I lean to press my lips to the scar. Feel him jolt. "Proof that you survived. Proof that you're strong. Proof that fate wanted you here. With me."
I kiss a scar. And another. Mapping his torso with my mouth the way he once mapped mine. Claiming every mark, every story, every piece of him he thought was too broken to love.
His breathing goes ragged. Hands fist at his sides like he's holding himself back by force of will.
"Charity." My name sounds wrecked. "If you keep doing that—"
"Then let go." As I meet his eyes, I see how much the restraint is costing him. "I'm not fragile. I won't break. Let go."
Something snaps.
His mouth trails fire down my neck. Teeth graze my pulse point, and I gasp, fingers digging into his bare shoulders. He makes a sound low in his throat—satisfaction, possession—and I feel it everywhere.
"Too many clothes," I manage, struggling with the zipper on my dress.
He helps me—hands more urgent now, pulling the zipper down and giving it enough of a tug for the dress to pool on the floor. Stepping out of my heels, I kick shoes and dress away, then he reaches for the clasp of my bra. It falls away, and his gaze darkens.
The string of pearls lie cool against my hot skin. Gliding his hands over my collarbones, he circles my neck, releases the clasp and absentmindedly places them on the counter.
One moment I'm standing, the next he's lifting me onto the counter, stepping between my thighs, kissing me with an intensity that steals my breath. This isn't the careful lover who's been treating me like glass. This is the gladiator—all controlled power and leashed violence turned to passion.
"You're perfect," he breathes, then lowers his head to worship.
Not gentle this time. His mouth is hot and demanding, tongue circling one nipple while his hand cups my other breast, thumb stroking until I'm arching into him, nails scoring his back.
He switches sides, lavishing the same attention, and the pleasure is so intense I can barely think. Can barely breathe. Can only feel.
When his hand slides to the sides of my lacey panties, I help him—lifting my hips so he can peel them away, leaving me bare on the counter while he stands fully clothed between my thighs.
"Not fair," I gasp. "You still have pants."
His smile is wicked. Dangerous. "Patience."
Then he kneels and pulls me to the edge of the counter in one swift movement.
The first touch of his mouth makes me cry out—surprised by the intimacy, overwhelmed by sensation. He's done this to me before, I know. But this time feels different. More intense. Like he's claiming me with every stroke of his tongue.
