I looked.
No pity. No disgust. Just that steady warmth.
“Can I see?” he asked.
It wasn’t what I expected. NotI’m sorryorthat must have been hardor any of the usual platitudes. Just a question. Simple and direct.
I let go of his other wrist.
Slowly, carefully, he lifted my shirt. I raised my arms and let him pull it over my head. The cool air hit my skin and I fought the urge to cross my arms over my chest, to hide.
He looked.
The pale flesh of my arms was lined with white scars, some thin as thread, others wider, raised slightly against the skin. They weren’t fresh—hadn’t been for years—but they were there. Evidence. Proof of every moment I’d felt like I was drowning and this was the only way to breathe.
Derek’s expression didn’t change. He reached out and traced one of the scars with his fingertip, feather light. Then another.
“These are part of you,” he said quietly. “They don’t make you less beautiful. They just make you real.”
My eyes were burning. I blinked rapidly, refusing to cry. I didn’t do that. Not in front of people. Not in front of him.
So I kissed him instead.
I pulled him to me and crushed my mouth against his, pouring everything I couldn’t say into it. His hands came up to cradle my face and I reached for the hem of his shirt, tugging impatiently. He broke the kiss just long enough to let me pull it over his head and then we were skin to skin.
Oh.
He was warm. So warm. Solid muscle and soft skin, that scattering of hair across his chest and down his torso. I ran my hands over him greedily, mapping the planes of his shoulders, the dip of his spine, the ridges of his abs. He shivered under my touch and something hot unfurled in my chest.
I did that. I made Derek Sullivan shiver.
His hands were everywhere—my back, my sides, my hips—and then he was lifting me off the counter like I weighed nothing. My legs wrapped around his waist on instinct and he carried me through the apartment, his mouth never leaving mine.
My head was spinning with how fast everything was moving. Which was funny, considering I could spin at 300 revolutions per minute without wobbling. But this—Derek’s hands on me, his body against mine, the bedroom door frame passing in my peripheral vision—this had me completely off-axis.
He set me down on the bed gently, carefully, like I might break. Then he just stood there, looking down at me with an expression so tender it made my chest ache.
Too much. It was too much.
I felt raw. Exposed. Cracked open in a way that had nothing to do with the scars he’d already seen and everything to do with the way he was looking at me like I was something precious. Something worth cherishing.
I didn’t know what to do with that. I didn’t know how to be cherished.
So I reached between us and palmed his erection through his shorts.
He sucked in a sharp breath, his hips jerking forward involuntarily.There.That was easier. That I could understand. Want. Desire. The simple language of bodies.
“Théo—” His voice was strained.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I said, rubbing him through the cotton, feeling him twitch and harden further under my hand.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m something special.”
He caught my wrist, stilling my hand. I looked up at him, expecting frustration, but his eyes were soft. Impossibly soft.
“You are something special,” he said.
