"Gabrielle." Her name came out broken, desperate. "If you're not sure—if you're not ready—"
"I'm sure." She pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, and what I saw there made my heart stop. "I'm terrified and confused and probably making a mistake. But I'm sure."
"This isn't a mistake."
"Prove it."
I kissed her again, deeper this time, my tongue sliding against hers until she moaned into my mouth. She tasted like wine and courage and something sweeter underneath—something that was purely her.
I pulled back, breathing hard. "Not here."
"Then where?"
I took her hand and led her from the library.
My bedroom was dark except for the moonlight streaming through the windows. I'd imagined her here so many times—in my bed, in my arms, making the sounds I'd only dreamed about. But imagination was nothing compared to the reality of her standing before me, her chest heaving, her eyes dark with want.
"I should tell you," she said, her voice unsteady. "I haven't—it's been a long time since—"
"I know." I brushed a strand of hair from her face, letting my fingers trail down her neck. "I know everything about you, remember?"
"That should creep me out."
"Does it?"
"No." She shivered as my hand traced her collarbone. "That's what creeps me out."
I laughed softly, the sound strange in my own ears. When was the last time I'd laughed? I couldn't remember.
"We'll go slow," I promised. "Tell me if you want to stop."
"I don't want to stop."
"Then tell me if you need more time. If anything feels wrong." I kissed her forehead, her temple, the corner of her mouth. "I want this to be good for you, Gabrielle. Better than good."
"It already is."
I reached for the zipper at the back of her dress, sliding it down inch by inch. The fabric parted beneath my hands, revealing the smooth expanse of her back, the delicate curve of her spine. She trembled but didn't pull away.
"So beautiful," I murmured against her skin. "Do you have any idea how long I've wanted to touch you like this?"
"Show me."
I pushed the dress off her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet. She stood before me in nothing but her underwear—simple cotton, white, somehow more erotic than any lingerie I'd ever seen. Her arms twitched, an instinct to cover herself, and I caught her wrists gently.
"Don't hide from me." I brought her hands to my lips, kissing each palm. "Not anymore."
"I'm not—" She swallowed hard. "I'm not what you're used to. I'm not thin, I'm not—"
"You're perfect." I released her hands and pulled my own shirt over my head, watching her eyes widen at the scars, the muscle, the evidence of the life I'd lived. "And I'm not what you're used to either. We'll figure it out together."
She reached out hesitantly, her fingers tracing the raised line across my ribs. "Does it hurt?"
"Not anymore."
"What about this one?" Her hand moved to my shoulder, to the puckered circle of the old bullet wound.
"That one ached for years. It's quiet now."
