Chapter 11
Logan’s towels were bigger than Gemma was, and she thought she might get lost in the one she was drying off with. It smelled like him and she brought the soft fabric to her nose, inhaling his scent and sighing.
So he was a decent guy, offering her shelter from the storm without expecting anything in return. After the night they’d spent together, the air between them was sizzling with unspoken questions, and she suspected he’d be interested in having sex again if it was a possibility.
Last night you were drunk.
Today you wouldn’t have any excuses for sleeping with a guy half your age.
Not half, exactly, but certainly younger.
And he worked for HERO Force. Ethically she was skating on ice so thin she could see fish through it. She bit her lip, remembering the smelly man on top of her her and his threats. There would be no recusing herself now.
She was scared, and that fear drew her to Logan. She forced the thoughts of her attacker out of her head and focused on the man outside the bathroom door.
She was so aware of him and his proximity, his body so sculpted and physically so fit she could squeeze his muscles and shout for joy. She eyed her naked self in the mirror, the tattoos that swirled around her reconstructed breasts reminding her she was far from a blank slate.
She was a woman with a history, and it was stamped on her as clear as day for anyone to see if she let them get close to her. Reaching up, she ran her finger along the petals of a flower.
The room had been dark when they’d made love.
Had sex.
You had sex, Gemma. You didn’t make love.
But it had felt like that to her, which was ridiculous.
Her eyes dropped and she finished drying her body. He hadn’t seen her scars, hadn’t had that chance to judge whether she was still a real woman. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Of course you’re still a woman.
Even more so, for all she’d been through.
She wrapped the towel around her body and opened the door, cool air sweeping across her skin as she made her way to the guest room. There were clothes on the bed that smelled like Logan too, and she dressed in them, the fabric like an intimate caress, keeping her warm.
She came back out, spying him under a modern lamp, typing on a computer. With his glasses he looked older, more distinguished. He looked…
Sexy.
And damn it all, she liked him. He was the kind of man she could have a relationship with, assuming she could stomach the age difference.
The first stirring of need rumbled through her belly.
He was offering her sanctuary, which made her feel protected.
Cared for. She walked toward him, her mind opening to him as she moved closer.
Maybe it didn’t matter how old he was. He was a man, not a child.
A man who seemed to want her just as much as she wanted him.
When she stood just outside the circle of light, he lifted his head and met her eyes.
“Better?” he asked.
She nodded. She was suddenly unsure of herself, and she swallowed against the tightness in her throat. “Are you working?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I’ll just grab my blanket.” She spun on her heel and took the afghan, anxious to beat a hasty retreat.
“Wait.”
She kept walking. “I’m going to get a glass of water and head to bed,” she called over her shoulder. She reached the kitchen and hung her head, pulling the blanket tightly around her middle.
He spoke from right behind her and she jumped. “What is it?”
“Uh, where do you keep your glasses?”
He reached into a cupboard and handed one to her, but didn’t let go when she would have taken it. “Since I first saw you standing in the rain, I’ve wanted to kiss you. Do you know that?” he asked.
Her thighs squeezed together. “You have?”
He nodded. “But I needed you to understand you could stay here, even if you didn’t want to be kissed.” He touched her uninjured cheek. “So you need to tell me if you want me to kiss you or if I’m crossing a line you’d rather keep intact.”
“Screw the line.”
He reached for her just as she went up on her tiptoes and kissed him. Her hands went around his neck and held him to her, his tongue teasing and exploring her mouth. He put the glass down behind her, knocking it over on the stone countertop, the glass clamoring.
Gemma dropped the blanket.
He pushed her back against the kitchen counter, his hips pressing against hers as he continued his skillful assault on her mouth.
And skillful he was. She never would have guessed the young stud with the MIT T-shirt would be such a passionate lover, so sure of himself and in tune with her desire.
He trailed kisses down her neck as his hand slipped beneath her shirt, gently cupping her naked breast, and he groaned. He squeezed her, his hand taking in the full shape.
Oh God, he’s looking for my nipple.
A nipple she didn’t have anymore.
She squirmed away from his seeking hand, suddenly uncertain. Unlike their first night together, the room was light enough for him to see her body clearly, and she was suddenly terrified of what he would do when he saw her chest.
“You okay?” he said huskily.
No, she wasn’t okay. This was a moment that should be easy and natural, but she was stuck with a body that looked anything but ordinary.
Fuck you, cancer.
She wasn’t going to let that damned disease take another thing away from her. “Wait.” She grabbed the hem of the shirt with both hands and pulled it over her head in one swoop, baring herself to him from the waist up and holding her breath.
The cancer had taken her breasts. Rather than try to replicate her old chest, she’d chosen an elaborate series of tattoos that flowed from the corner of her underarm across the swell of each breast.
They were the most personal part of her body. They represented her fight. Everything she had gone through.
Her will to live.
Those tattoos were her spirit itself, and now she was exposing them to this man, not knowing if he would be repulsed or accepting, and her chest squeezed tightly as she waited for his reaction.
He wasn’t touching her. He wasn’t saying anything.
He stared at her, his face unreadable as his eyes trailed over every inch of her decorated skin. She exhaled shakily. When she couldn’t stand his silence any longer, she moved to put the shirt back on.
“Wait, I’m not done.”
He traced a line as it swirled around the crest of one breast. “There are flowers and designs I don’t understand, but there are also symbols. I found the silhouette of Justice.”
Her mouth pulled down hard at the corners. He wasn’t disgusted. He was in awe. “She’s blindfolded.”
He stroked her gently. “And an ocean wave with the sun setting in the background.”
There was a heart there too, for the child who would never play on that beach, but she didn’t need to tell him that. Most of the designs were too personal for anyone else to understand. She hadn’t created them for anyone but herself.
“So beautiful.” He bent his head and kissed each breast tenderly, reverently.
She lifted his face to hers and kissed him, knowing she was very much a woman in Logan’s eyes, feeling sexier than she could remember feeling in her lifetime. Her hands slipped beneath his shirt and she lifted it over his head.
“Go get a condom,” she commanded. “I have a blanket, and this time, we’re doing it on the floor.”