“Beautiful chaos. Every damaged, broken piece of you is beautiful.”
What he says makes it almost impossible to breathe. So many emotions well up inside me. Constantine said I was beautiful. Now Tristan. I want to believe them. Am desperate to, but…my hand curls around the rough flesh of my left arm.
Tristan shifts so that I can see him fully in the window through eyes blurred with unshed tears.
“Do you trust me?”
My mouth opens to say no, but something stops me. I’m terrified to trust anyone. Alana is the only person I’ve truly let in. I’m scared that if I let Tristen see me, the real me, he’ll be disappointed. Or worse, he’ll look at me with pity.
“I can’t,” I admit truthfully.
“You can, Red. I’ll show you every day that you can.” His hand moves down the length of my neck, but his eyes never leave mine in the reflection. “Downstairs, you told me not to touch your left side.”
Careful of my bandage, his lips brush across the top of my shoulder. Filaments of desire slowly unfurl like the petals of a flower after they’re kissed by the first rays of the sun. My eyes close, and I shudder out a breath when his lips trail back up my neck to my ear.
“I will never take from you without your permission.” His nose buries in my hair at my temple, and he breathes in deeply. “You can trust me, Syn. Tell me to stop, and I will.”
I’m overwhelmed by him. Seduced by his promises. So, when his hands begin to move down my arms, I’m powerless to speak that one word.
Because I don’t want him to stop.
He positions me so that he takes my weight, my back flush with his chest.
“Lean into me and close your eyes.”
My head nestles into the crook of his shoulder as my body turns to putty under his exploring fingers.
He starts at my hands, tracing the outside of each finger.
“How does that feel?” he asks.
It’s strange, but oddly familiar, like a phantom memory.
“It tickles a little. What cologne do you wear?”
The long-sleeved button-up I was wearing yesterday carried his scent. With my eyes closed, my other senses take over.
“L’Homme.”
“I like it.”
He slips his hands under mine, threading our fingers together. With my eyes shut, I can feel how much larger his hands are compared to mine, and I marvel at the juxtaposition.
“I’m moving to your wrists.”
Tristan waits a second, allowing me time to say no, and when I don’t, his fingers curl around each wrist, his thumbs creating soothing circles that feel like brushstrokes on a painter’s canvas.
“More?”
“Please.”
“Your skin is so soft. Can you feel me?” he asks when he gets to the uneven, discolored part of my left arm.
The explosion of sensations that erupt everywhere he touches is indescribable. God, yes, I can feel him. I shouldn’t be able to, but I do.
His muscled arms band around me, and he buries his face between my breasts. “I love you so much, Aoife.”
I’ve noticed whenever his emotions run high, he reverts to calling me Aoife.
