15. Chapter 15 #2
It’s an old scar, twisted and uneven, a permanent mark I’ll carry forever. But the physical mark isn’t what makes me freeze; it’s the memory attached to it. The way Liam looked at it whenever he caught a glimpse. The flash of pity followed by that subtle twist of disgust in his features.
It’s the exact reason I pulled away and stopped letting him have me the way he wanted to.
All that built-up shame comes down on me in a single heartbeat. I lock my thigh against his hip even tighter, refusing to budge.
Above me, his eyes narrow as he instantly detects the sudden change.
He stops.
“No.” I try to sit up, pulling my leg tighter against him.
I can’t handle seeing that same look of disgust on a man who already looks at me with so much intensity.
His hand closes around my thigh, but he doesn’t force it open. He just watches me, his eyes moving over my face before dropping to where I’m trying so hard to hide myself.
Then his gaze moves down my body—my throat, my ribs, my stomach—until it stops on the inside of my right thigh, right on the scar disappearing slightly under my panties.
Mortification burns through me.
The silence in the room stretches until I’m ready to snap.
I can’t bear it. I can’t look at him and see the pity.
I turn my head and bury my face in my hands, hiding the hot tears blurring my vision.
“I know it’s ugly,” I say into my palms, my voice broken.
I wait for him to awkwardly get off the bed, make an excuse, or look at me the way Liam did.
Instead, I feel his hands wrap around my wrists.
He doesn’t yank or pull. There’s absolute authority in his touch as he gently pries my hands away from my face and lowers them onto the mattress above my head.
I try to keep my eyes closed, but his thumb catches my chin and tips my face toward him, his grip firm but gentle until I finally open them.
The disgust I expected isn’t there.
Neither is pity.
His hand, still resting near my knee, turns over until only the backs of his fingers brush my skin.
“Who told you that?”
“What?” I whisper.
“Who told you that it’s ugly?”
“Nobody,” I whisper, shaking my head. “It doesn’t matter.”
His eyes are fierce, burning with a quiet fury I don’t entirely understand.
Then he slides down my body.
His massive frame shifts lower until his face hovers over my thighs, and every muscle in my body tightens while I hold my breath and wait.
His lips press against my scar.
My breath catches.
The sensation is so different from the revulsion I’d taught myself to expect that for a second, I don’t know what to do with it.
He doesn’t say anything.
He runs his lips slowly along the raised edge before dragging his tongue over the scar in one deliberate stroke.
Then he pushes himself up and settles back on his heels between my thighs.
Reaching for the collar of his T-shirt, he pulls it over his head and tosses it onto the mattress beside me. His scent reaches me immediately—cologne, clean laundry, and the heat of his skin.
My eyes travel down the expanse of his chest, the hard ridges of his torso, his abs, and the prominent V-line disappearing under the waistband of his jeans. Dark, intricate tattoos cover his chest and spill over his broad shoulders.
My heart pounds violently against my ribs. I can’t stop looking at him.
Without a word, he reaches for my right hand.
“What are you doing?”
He doesn’t answer. He just pulls my hand toward his chest. For a second, I think he’s placing my palm over his heart, but he guides it farther out, toward his left arm.
Still holding my gaze, he presses my palm to his shoulder and slides my hand down his arm.
The moment my fingertips move, my breath catches.
Under the dark ink, I feel the unmistakable ridges of a scar. Jagged, raised tissue runs from the top of his shoulder all the way to his elbow.
That wasn’t a cut.
Whatever did this was brutal.
He keeps his eyes on mine as he lets go, leaving me free to pull away.
I don’t.
My fingers move slowly over the scar. His muscle shifts under my touch—rock-hard, massive—but I focus on the uneven ridges under my fingertips. Whatever happened was extreme. It didn’t just cut his skin. It tore through him, leaving a permanent map behind.
A quiet shudder moves through him as I trace the highest ridge near his shoulder.
This is raw for him, too.
A silent exchange of broken pieces.
You showed me yours. I’ll show you mine.
Only his is so much worse.
The tattoos hide it well, and his intimidating presence makes it hard to imagine anyone staring long enough to notice.
For the first time, the weight of Liam’s disgust is gone, replaced by the man sitting between my thighs and letting me touch the part of him he keeps hidden.
I swallow, my fingertips still resting against the jagged ridge of tissue on his arm.
“How did you get it?”
“Fought a shark,” he deadpans, letting go of my wrist.
My eyes shoot up to his, and I catch the amusement there.
A sudden giggle slips out of me, and I try to stifle it with my hand. His eyes soften, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It’s a devastatingly handsome look on him, and it sends a completely different kind of warmth rushing through me.
Somehow, I feel lighter, unburdened, and so grateful that I don’t even know how to put it into words.
So, I don’t.
I raise my right hand and place my palm gently against his cheek. His skin is surprisingly soft, the slight stubble along his jaw rough against my fingers. I lean up, tilting my head, and press my lips softly to his.
He accepts the kiss, his mouth moving slowly against mine.
He understands exactly what it means.
He knows this is a thank you.
The second I pull away, he follows, refusing to let the kiss end. The softness in his expression disappears as he settles back between my thighs, his hips pressing firmly against mine.
A gasp leaves my lips when the hard length of him presses against me again.
“Think you’re safe now, snowflake?” he rasps against my lips, his voice dropping back into that filthy baritone that makes my entire body tremble. “Think I’m going to go easy on you?”
He rolls his hips, grinding against me with enough pressure to pull a broken sound from my throat. My fingers flex against the mattress and my hips lift instinctively, chasing the friction.
His right hand travels down my stomach, past my belly button, until his warm palm settles between my thighs and presses firmly against my soaked panties.
My breath catches against his mouth.
He feels exactly what he’s done to me, and the slight curve of his lips tells me he knows it.
I kiss him harder before he can say a word.
The second I try to pull my mouth back, he follows, catching mine again before I get far as his hips roll forward.
A ragged gasp leaves my lips and my legs tighten around him. The pressure lands right where I need it, rubbing over me again when he moves, and I pull him closer without thinking.
Liam flickers through my mind.
The look on his face the first time he saw my scar. The disgust he tried to hide. How quickly I went from standing naked in front of someone I trusted to wishing I could cover every inch of myself.
But he just saw all of it.
And he’s still here, his body heavy on mine, kissing me like he can’t get enough.
For the first time in years, I don’t feel the urge to cover myself.
My fingers sink into his thick hair as his tongue slides against mine and his hips move again. The hard ridge of him rubs over me, and my body answers before my brain has a chance to get involved, arching into the pressure and pulling him tighter between my legs.
“You always this welcoming to men who break into your house?” he rasps against my lips.
His hand trails slowly down my side.
I bite back a smile. “If they looked like you, I don’t think anyone would complain.”
“Well, fuck me.” His thumb strokes my hip as his mouth curves. “Did I just get my first compliment?”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Which one? Because I can promise you it’s going straight to one of them.”
I laugh, and his eyes drop to my mouth before his hand moves between my legs.
The heel of his palm presses against my panties, grinding right over my clit, and my laugh catches on a shaky breath.
His mouth curves.
He knows exactly what he just did.
“Wet for me already, snowflake?” His stubble scrapes along my jaw. “Do you always get this wet for men who break into your house?”
His fingers press against my clit through my panties and my hips lift into his hand. I curl my fingers around the back of his neck and pull him closer.
“If you’re an intruder,” I whisper, “what are you going to take?”
His eyes hold mine for a long second before he lowers his mouth to my ear.
“Everything.”
His fingers hook the edge of my panties and pull them aside. The first touch of his fingertips against my bare pussy steals my breath.
He doesn’t rush. He runs them slowly through my slick heat, spreading me open before one finger presses at my entrance. I lift my hips, trying to take more, but he holds me there, giving me just enough pressure to make my thighs tighten around him.
His mouth moves down my neck instead, his stubble scratching over my skin before his teeth catch lightly at my shoulder.
“You’re teasing me,” I breathe.
“I am.” I feel his smile against my skin. “I’ve thought about getting between these thighs too fucking much to rush it now.”
His finger circles my entrance again, slick with how wet I am, and my hips lift, chasing it.
“Zed.”
He raises his head, those pale eyes finding mine. “You keep doing that and I’m going to start thinking you want something, snowflake.”
I glare at him, but there’s no hiding what I want when his hand is buried in my panties and I’m pushing into his touch.
His mouth twitches before he finally gives it to me.
One long finger presses inside me and my breath leaves in a rush. My grip tightens in his hair as he works it deeper. The stretch makes my thighs tense around his hand, and his eyes stay on my face, catching every reaction.
“Shh, I know, baby.”