“Maggie,” he whispered, a warning and a plea wrapped into one word.
She turned in his arms to face him, her eyes catching the faint moonlight filtering through the curtains.
“Anson?” Her voice was thick with something more than sleep.
He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “Sorry.”
“For what?” She pushed up on one elbow, looking down at him in the dim light from the woodstove. Her hair fell around her face, creating shadows that made her eyes seem impossibly deep.
“This isn’t... I didn’t mean to...” He couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t make himself say the words.
She studied him for a long moment, then brushed her fingers across his cheek. “Do you want me to move?”
“No.” The word came out before he could stop it. Honest. Raw.
Something changed in her expression. The wariness melted away, replaced with heat and hunger so clear it stole his breath. She whispered his name again, and the way her lips shaped the sound sent electricity down his spine.
He’d been fighting it for weeks now. Since the first moment he saw her, looking nothing like he’d imagined from her letters but somehow exactly right. He’d been fighting the pull of her, the wanting, the need to touch and taste and claim.
And he was so goddamn tired of fighting.
When she leaned down, he met her halfway. Their lips crashed together, and her mouth opened under his, her tongue sliding against his bottom lip, and he groaned, the sound dragged from somewhere deep in his chest.
He wrapped one arm around her waist and rolled, pulling her on top of him. She gasped against his mouth, then settled her weight across his hips, the pressure against his cock almost unbearable. He gripped her hips, guiding her into a slow rock against him.
Her hands framed his face, thumbs brushing over his beard as she kissed him like she was starving for the taste of him. Then her fingers were in his hair, tugging just enough to send sparks racing down his neck, and he growled against her mouth.
“God, I’ve wanted this,” she murmured against his lips, barely breaking contact. “Wanted you.”
He slid his hands under her shirt, finding the warm skin of her back, tracing the bumps of her spine. She arched into his touch like a cat, her body responding to him in ways he’d only dreamed about. When his fingers brushed the side of her breast, she moaned and broke the kiss, sitting up to look down at him.
In the dim light, with her hair wild and her lips swollen from his kisses, she looked unreal. Too perfect. Too good for someone like him.
She reached for the hem of her shirt, tugging it up and over her head in one fluid motion, and rational thought fled. Her breasts spilled free, small and perfect, nipples pebbled from the night air or arousal or both.
“Your turn,” she whispered, tugging at his flannel.
Reality crashed back with the force of a sledgehammer. His scars. The twisted, ruined flesh that covered most of his torso. The physical proof of his worst failure, his biggest shame.
But her hands were already working the buttons of his shirt, and he was frozen, caught between desire and terror. By the time his brain caught up with his body, she had the flannel open and was tugging it free from his shoulders.
He could have stopped her. Should have. But the hunger in her eyes, the way she bit her lip as she looked at the expanse of his chest still hidden by his undershirt—it made him weak. Made him hope that maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t recoil from what lay beneath.
The undershirt was next, and this time he helped her, sitting up slightly to pull it over his head. Then he was bare from the waist up, and the cool air hit his scarred skin, and reality settled cold and heavy in his gut.
Maggie went still above him, hands hovering inches from his chest. Her eyes widened, lips parting on a soft inhale.
They were worse than she’d imagined. He knew that. Puckered and discolored, the skin grafts created a patchwork of textures that looked like melted wax in some places and pulled too tight in others. Evidence of his crime, forever etched into his skin.
“Anson...”
He couldn’t bear to hear the pity in her voice. Couldn’t stand to see her try to hide her disgust. He bucked slightly, dislodging her from his lap, and reached for his shirt.
She caught his wrist. “No, wait.”
“Forget it. This was a mistake.” The words tasted like ash.
“Please.” She didn’t let go of his wrist, her grip firm but gentle. “Look at me.”
