“You can’t promise that.”
“I just did.”
His hand is still on my hip where my shirt rode up, and his thumb is moving against my bare skin. I don't think he realizes he's doing it.
His eyes drop to my mouth. His fingers dig into my hip, then ease off like he's catching himself.
Then, he takes my hand and leads me out of the kitchen, down the short hallway, and past Kira’s closed door to my bedroom. He shuts the door behind us and turns the lock.
“Stop means stop,” he reminds me. “Say it back.”
“Stop means stop.”
He reaches for the bottom of my shirt again. This time, he pulls it over my head and drops it on the floor. I resist the urge to cover myself and hide the scars that litter my stomach and ribs.
His eyes move over me, taking note of every mark. Then he reaches behind me and unclasps my bra. It falls away, and I stand in front of him bare from the waist up.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs.
“I’m not?—”
“Don’t.” He cups my face in his hands. “Don’t tell me what you’re not. I can see what you are. You’re a survivor. You’re a fighter. And you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever touched.”
I blink hard, fighting back the tears that want to fall. He catches my chin and tilts my face up.
“Lie down on the bed. On your stomach.”
The request surprises me, but I obey and take my place on the mattress with my cheek pressed against the pillow. I hear the rustle of fabric as he strips off his shirt, and then the bed dips as he kneels beside me.
His hands start at my shoulders, kneading the muscles there. I groan into the pillow as he works out knots I didn’t even know I had.
“Relax,” he orders. “I’ve got you.”
His hands travel down my spine, pausing at each scar to touch the damaged skin before he kisses every single one.
“These don’t make you broken,” he states against my skin. “They make you brave. Every mark is proof that you survived. That you fought. That you got out.”
I bury my face in the pillow as a sob wracks through me. He keeps kissing, touching, and worshipping the parts of me I’ve hated for years.
His hands find the waistband of my leggings. “Lift up.”
I raise my hips, and he drags the fabric down my legs along with my underwear. The cool air hits my bare skin, and I shiver.
“Turn over.”
I roll onto my back and watch him strip off his jeans. His body is a roadmap of violence, just like mine. Scars crisscross his chest and stomach. A puckered bullet wound marks his shoulder. Burn tissue wraps around his forearm.
We match, I realize. We both carry maps of survival on our skin.
He settles over me, bracing his weight on his forearms. His skin is scorching hot against mine, and I arch into him instinctively.
“Not yet.” He dips his head and presses his mouth to the scar on my collarbone. “I’m not done.”
He works his way down my body with agonizing slowness. Kissing, licking, and nipping at every inch of skin he encounters. My breasts. My ribs. The soft curve of my stomach. The jut of my hipbone.
When he reaches the apex of my thighs, he looks up at me. “Open for me.”
I spread my legs, and he lowers between them. His breath ghosts over my center, and I feel myself clench in anticipation.
