“You won’t.”
She touched the scar so gently I almost broke.
Not because it felt good.
Because it felt like forgiveness had fingertips.
Her palm settled over the wound that had almost taken me away from her. Then she leaned in and kissed it.
I closed my eyes.
There were men who would have wanted a woman’s mouth there for different reasons.
I was sure I had been one of them once.
But this was not that.
This was Destiny kissing proof that I had stayed alive.
My hand slid into her hair.
Soft.
Finally.
The blue-black strands slipped through my fingers exactly the way I remembered and better than memory had any right to be. She tipped her face up, and I kissed her again, deeper now, the restraint thinning between us with every breath.
We undressed slowly.
Not because desire was weak.
Because it was enormous.
Because rushing would have felt like disrespect after all this time.
Each piece of clothing removed was another door opening. Her shoes. My boots. Her scrub pants. My jeans. The rest became hands and breath and whispered checks that were not clinical anymore but still careful.
Are you okay?
Yes.
Tell me if I hurt you.
You’re not.
Beautiful.
Dylan.
Her name in my mouth. Mine in hers.
No ghosts answering.
When we reached the bed, I sat first because my side still had limits and Destiny was not above using her nurse voice, apparently.
“Careful,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
