I run my finger down one of the worst ones, a jagged line that cuts across my left pectoral. "This is me," I say, my voice rough. "A scarred ex-soldier. This is what you're signing up for."
Claire stands up from the couch. For a second, I brace myself for her to back away, to head toward the bedroom or the door. To tell me this is too much, that she can't do this.
Instead, she takes a step closer. "Can I touch you?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
She reaches out slowly, giving me time to pull away if I want to. Her fingers land first on the burn scar near my shoulder, feather-light and warm. "Does it hurt?"
"Most days, no," I manage. "But sometimes it does. On the warmest days, it feels like my clothes are glued to the skin. Like I'm burning all over again."
She nods, absorbing this information, then runs her hand down from my shoulder to my chest. Her fingers trace the shrapnel scars, following their paths across my torso. She's not flinching, not grimacing. Just... exploring. Learning my body through its damage.
I've never felt this cherished. This appreciated despite everything wrong with me.
After I came back from deployment, after the nightmares started and the buzzing in my ear became constant and I couldn't sleep without seeing my friends die over and over, I convinced myself I wasn't worthy of love. That no woman would want someone this broken. That the best I could hope for was to be alone with my ranch work and my brothers and try not to think about what I was missing.
But Claire is making me rethink everything.
I place my hand over hers where it rests against my chest, right over my heart. "Are you okay with this? With me looking like this?"
She looks up at me, and there's something fierce in her eyes. "You're an idiot if you ever thought different. You're handsome, Rhett. The scars and the burn don't scare me. They show me that you had a life before me, that you survived so many trials and you're still here. Still pursuing love. Still worthy of it."
My fist clenches at my side. Fuck. I've been longing to hear those words for so long. Longer than I've been willing to admit even to myself.
I place my hands on her hips, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin t-shirt. She looks up at me, her blue eyes wide and trusting.
"I want to kiss you," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "I know that might be off-putting, but I haven't kissed someone in so long that I'm afraid it'll be a shitty kiss. I'm probably out of practice, and—"
She laughs softly, the sound cutting through my rambling. "It's okay even if it's bad. We'll just have to practice more."
Practice more. The implication that there will be a "more," that this isn't just a one-time thing, makes my chest tight.
I lean down, my hands trembling where they grip her hips. My chest is heaving, heart pounding so hard I'm sure she can hear it. This matters. This kiss matters in a way that feels enormous and terrifying.
When my lips touch hers, it's like a fuse getting blown in my head.
Everything else disappears. The nightmare, the scars, the lies we're telling my family, none of it matters. All that exists is the softness of Claire's mouth against mine, the way she immediately opens for me, the small sound she makes in the back of her throat that goes straight to my cock.
Her lips are so soft. Softer than I imagined during all those nights alone in my cottage, wondering if I'd made the right choice. She kisses me back without hesitation, her hands coming up to cup both sides of my face, and the tenderness nearly undoes me.
My cock throbs, straining against my jeans, demanding attention. I want to touch her everywhere, want to strip that t-shirt off her body and see all of her, want to make her feel as good as she's making me feel right now. But I force myself to keep the kiss slow. Gentle. To let her set the pace, even though every instinct I have is screaming at me to take more, claim more, make her mine in every possible way.
Claire's tongue touches my bottom lip, and I groan into her mouth. My hands tighten on her hips, pulling her closer until her body is pressed against my bare chest. I can feel her breasts through the thin fabric, feel her nipples hardening, and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to rip that shirt off her.
She makes another small sound. Half gasp, half moan, and it's the sweetest thing I've ever heard. I want to hear it again. Want to hear what other sounds she makes when she's being touched, being worshiped, being made to feel good.
My hands slide up from her hips to her waist, my thumbs brushing against the underside of her breasts through her shirt. She arches into the touch, pressing herself closer, and fuck—
I pull back slightly, breathing hard, resting my forehead against hers. "Claire."
"Yeah?" Her voice is breathy, her pupils dilated.
"We should probably stop."
"Why?" She sounds genuinely confused.
"Because you just got here today. Because you've had an exhausting night. Because I just woke you up with a nightmare and this is probably not the right time to—"
