“No, snowdrop.” I gripped his hips to keep him from retreating further. “That thing you’re doing with your hips feels really good.”
“This?” He arched his lower back and ground down on my lap, slow and filthy.
“Oh fuck. Yes. That.”
My hands slid down to grip his upper thighs as he continued that torturous grind. I liked the way my big hands looked against him—the contrast of my broad palms against the lean muscle of his quads, the way my fingers dug in just enough to leave faint impressions on his skin. His thigh muscles were pulled taut with the effort of controlling his movements, flexing under my grip.
“You’re so good at this,” I breathed. “So good at taking care of me.”
“Someone has to be.” He rolled his hips again and I felt his hardness press against mine through the layers of fabric between us. “You’re clearly a disaster on your own.”
“No arguments here.”
He kissed the corner of my mouth and resumed that slow, devastating grind. He pressed his nose against my skin. Nuzzling into my neck. Pressing soft kisses to my throat. His unspoken version ofI missed you.
I slid one hand up under his shirt—my shirt, actually, another stolen hoodie—and splayed my fingers across the warm skin of his lower back. He shivered at the contact, then grabbedthe hem of the hoodie and pulled it over his head, revealing the lean lines of his torso, the pale skin I’d mapped with my mouth.
The scars on his arms caught the afternoon light filtering through the blinds, thin white lines casting faint shadows across his forearms. He always kept them hidden—long sleeves even in the height of summer. But here, in my bedroom, with my hands on his body, he let me see them.
I traced one with my thumb.
He tensed. “Don’t.”
“I like that you share them with me.” I kept my touch gentle, reverent. “That you trust me enough to let me see.”
“I wish I didn’t have them.” His voice was small. Brittle. “I wish I was… unmarked. Normal.”
“They’re part of you.” I moved my hand up to cup his face, tilting it so he had to look at me. “And every part of you is beautiful to me. These—” I traced another scar with my free hand, “—these show me what a survivor you are. How strong you are. You went through hell and you’re still here. Still fighting. Still blooming.”
“That’s the sappiest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“Doesn’t make it less true.”
His eyes were glassy but he blinked the moisture away before it could fall. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m serious.” I gently traced the inside of his wrist, right over a faded line. “My beautiful survivor. My snowdrop.”
He made a sound that was half laugh, half sob, and then he was kissing my jaw, my neck, anywhere he could reach without hurting me. I held him close and let him hide his face against my shoulder until the trembling stopped.
“I still think about it sometimes,” he said quietly, his breath warm against my neck. “When things get loud. When I can’t make the noise stop.” A pause. “About how easy it would be to relieve some of that pressure.”
My arms tightened around him.
“I’m not saying I want to,” he added quickly. “I just… I wanted you to know. That it’s not all in the past. That I’m still—” He swallowed. “That I’m still working on it.”
“Thank you for telling me.” I pressed my lips to his hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He exhaled—shaky, relieved—and his fingers curled into the fabric of my shirt.
When he pulled back, his expression had settled into something softer. More open. The sharp edges he usually wore like armor had been tucked away, at least for now.
“Enough talking,” he murmured. “I believe I promised you a distraction.”
He climbed off my lap just long enough to strip off boxers also borrowed from my closet, then helped me out of my clothes with a carefulness that made my throat tight. He kept glancing at my face, checking for signs of pain, adjusting his movements to avoid jostling me.
When we were both naked, he straddled me again, and the feeling of his bare skin against mine made us both groan.
“Okay?” he asked.
