My cheeks get impossibly darker. I’ve been staring at his pecs for way too long, with his shirt held awkwardly under his clenched jaw. “Sorry,” I say quickly, pulling at his shirt so he raises his arms for me.
“Don’t apologize. I know they’re hard not to stare at,” he says, voice full of sorrow. Which just makes me laugh, at the most inappropriate time, thinking about how what he said is true. His pecs are hard not to look at. His jaw tightens, and his hands go to move me at my laughter, so I clench my thighs tighter around his waist, anchoring me to him.
“No,” I say, grabbing his face with both hands, running my thumbs along his jaw to lessen the tension. “I’m laughing at a stupid joke in my head, and I wasn’t staring at your scars. Promise.”
“Sure,” he says, disbelief dripping from his words as his eyes refuse to stay on mine.
“I wasn’t,” I counter.
“Then explain to me what you were staring at? There’s nothing else there,” he grumbles, grabbing for his shirt.
“Your pecs!” I say—yell, really—as I throw my hands up in exasperation.
“What?” he asks, confused.
“I hadn’t even gotten to the scars before you got your panties in a twist!” I say, still almost yelling at how infuriating he can be. How can he not see that those scars do nothing to deter me from the fact that I want my older brother’s best friend?
He just rolls his eyes at me, not believing a word I say. “Oh my God! Liam, seriously, I see the scars, trust me I do—you can’t miss them.” He wants me to be honest, so I’ll be brutally honest. Maybe that’s what he needs to finally believe me. “Yeah, they’re noticeable. What I notice about them, though, is how they look like they hurt—both physically and mentally. But I promise you, I wasn’t staring at them. I was looking at the rest of you. At your arms, your neck, your abs, your pecs. They were the last thing I was thinking about. Honestly, I think you give them enough thought for the both of us.”
I finish my spiel and I’m almost panting. He gets me so mad, and the longer he stays silent, the more myfrustration grows. I swear he’s worse than Gigi at grinding my gears and pushing my buttons. Again, I repeat to myself,Does he really think so little of himself, and me, that he thinks his scars would bother me?I mean he’s been my literal dream and fantasy since I can remember. Does he really think scars are going to make me want to give up my chance with him? The only thing playing against him right now is his shitty attitude and—
I’m pulled out of my thoughts by his lips crashing into mine in a blistering kiss. His tongue doesn’t sneak out, his hand doesn’t knot in my hair or slide up my body, it’s just our lips—our mouths touching—but it’s the most consuming, demanding, searing kiss he’s given me.
He’s claiming me.
But then, his lips are gone as fast as they appeared against mine.
“What was that?” My voice shakes as my fingertips feather against my lips.
Chapter 28
I couldn’t help myself, I had to kiss her at that moment. “Sorry,” I tell her. The last thing she probably wanted was for me to kiss her. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
She doesn’t miss a beat, just tilts her head and asks, “Why not?”
“Because I doubt you wanted me to kiss you,” I tell her honestly. I decided earlier today in my therapy session that, from now on, Sloane is getting the truth, and only the truth, from me. She’s getting the good, the bad, and the ugly.
Like a parrot, she tilts her head and asks, “Why not?”
Sensing her playfulness, I ask, “Did you want me to kiss you?”
“Was I expecting it? No. Do I hate you for doing it? No. But I do think we need to go over certain things before you do that again,” she says, and I try not to let my apprehension show on my face, but not once has a sentence like that ever sounded good.
“What things?” I ask again, putting the ball in her court.
She rolls her eyes, this time with a smile, before saying, “Let’s start easy. You never told me if yourscars hurt.”
That’s easy? Nothing about this fucked-up situation is easy. From waking up in the hospital, to the nightmares, the canes, and the scars. It’s all hard. It’s all dog shit.
The truth. Sloane is only getting the truth, I chant to myself before answering. “Yes. They’re tight, they itch, and they pull when I move too quickly, or when I forget they’re there. Plus, they’re fucken horrendous to look at.”
“Is there anything you can do to help with that?” she asks, lightly running her fingertips on the edge where unmarred skin touches red skin.
“Yeah. I’m supposed to keep it hydrated and try to massage it at least once a day,” I explain.
“Supposed to?” she asks.
“It’s not the easiest or most pleasant thing to do, and I can’t reach the entire thing, so I don’t do it as much as I should,” I admit.
