Scars Like Ours | Red View Romance #2

🍂 Thirty Eight

His heart somersaulted, felt like it might roll right out of him as her mouth met his jaw, leaving kisses along the tainted skin. She brought her lips back to his when his hands found her waist and began to explore--he'd held her before, but not like this. Not with nothing but thin satin to keep him from feeling the heat of her skin.

She was beautiful, and if his words couldn't show her, he'd use his hands. The need to touch her was overwhelming, almost as much as the need to please her.

"Annie..." Her name fell from him, breathless, needy. She gripped the collar of his shirt, then moved to work the first few buttons open, kickstarting his nerves. It was really happening; she really wanted him. But now she'd see everything, all the scars he'd managed to keep hidden beneath clothing, even worse than the ones on his face.

Her knuckles grazed the skin of his chest, the gentle, barely-there touches stirring up an ache in his gut. She pulled away, gaze falling to her hands as they worked. "I've never..." Her face was red, breath unsteady as she let out a quiet, sheepish laugh. "But you probably already knew that."

"I guess we're even, then," he admitted, and she stilled, eyes meeting his in a silent search for honesty.

Finding it, she smiled slowly, apparently pleased with the confession. They'd be each other's first. Each other's last, if he had his way. She undid the final button, and his breath caught when her hands slipped inside his shirt, running over the length of his torso, over the ridges and raised scars of his left side and the smooth, unharmed skin on his right.

She pulled the shirt back, eyes studying the marred body in front of her as the fabric fell to the floor. He'd seen himself enough times in his reflection to know what she was seeing. The clean cuts through the hair on his chest where scar tissue prevented any from growing, the jagged lines, pale and embossed forever over his ribs, his shoulder, his waist.

She leaned in, surrounding him in that flowery aroma, and kissed his jaw, his neck, and finally the large scar beneath his collarbone. This was supposed to be about him making her feel beautiful, he remembered, but in that moment the roles had been reversed. For the first time, he let it wash over him that he could be appreciated, desired, needed. And it only made the need for her ten times as strong.

He drew her up to his mouth and she moaned at the sudden, depthless kiss. Dropping one hand to her waist, he pulled her body against his--he had to feel her, felt like he would die without the contact. He moved to her neck, drawing kisses along the warm skin and immersing himself in the scent of her--not the perfume she was wearing, he realized. Everything that added up to her, the same aroma he'd been entranced by the first time they'd met.

Both hands ran down her waist, then came around to her back, searching the silky fabric for a zipper they couldn't find. He had to see her, but wondered if it might kill him when he did. Just the thought was overwhelming enough.

"Side," she breathed out, reaching for it herself. "The zip is on the side."

He placed his hands over hers and found the tiny, hidden closure. When he tugged it down she let the straps fall to her shoulders, and he stepped back to watch the reveal of pale pink lace and what seemed like miles of milky white skin as the dress slipped to the floor. The moonlight coming in through her curtained window danced over the strong angles and long lines of her body. She looked like a painting herself, he thought, but didn't imagine that any artist could capture her in oils or even song.

"Beautiful," he murmured, brushing a light hand over her collarbones and watching her shiver at the touch. He skimmed his knuckles down the center of her to her belly button, and her eyes fluttered shut on a sigh of his name. He lowered his mouth to her chest, his lips skimming the soft lace as he kissed the untouched skin.