like that for a long moment, their ragged breathing the only sound in the otherwise silent room.
He was the first one to move, unsnapping the button on her jeans, drawing the zipper down slowly.
She closed her eyes while he undressed her, the shifting fabric against her skin sending little jolts of electricity through her. It felt amazing. Like it always did when they were together. Like it always did when he touched her. But there was something more to this too. Something deeper. That terrified her. But not enough to stop.
He placed his hands on her bare hips, then let his fingertips drift down her legs, back to her thigh, then back up to the part of her midsection where she had been left most scarred from the skin graft.
He closed his eyes, leaning in, his face against the ruined skin something she found she couldn’t feel. Her throat tightened, tears blurring her vision. She kept on watching him, even as the first tear fell, then the second. When he moved away from the scar, she could feel the heat from his mouth, the pressure of his lips.
Then they drifted back to the very worst scar, and she lost the sensation again. She took a deep breath, one that turned into a sob.
He stopped, looking back up at her, concern lighting his blue eyes.
“I can’t feel that,” she said, her throat so tight she could hardly force the words through it.
He released his hold on her, clenching his hands into fists, pressing them down against the hard floor, the muscles in his shoulders and arms tight. He lowered his head for a second, then raised it back up.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry for everything that I took from you.”
For the second time that day, she felt her knees give way. It was her turn to join him down on the floor. He pulled her over onto his lap, holding her naked body up against his clothed one.
She couldn’t tell him that it was okay. That she didn’t need the apology. That he didn’t have to say it. Because she did need it. She let it wash over her like a wave. But when it ended, nothing had changed. The scars were still there. And so was his tattoo.
She reached down, pressing one fingertip down against the dark ink on his forearm. She stared at the mark while she moved her fingertips over it, following the line around his entire arm.
“I’m sorry that you were my lesson,” he said. “It’s not fair. Not a damn thing about it is fair.”
She looked up at him, her eyes never leaving his.
“Well, my scars and your tattoo aren’t going anywhere, are they?” She pressed her palm over the mark on his skin. “All the regret, all the blame, all the anger and all the apologies in the world won’t make them go away.”
“I chose to put the tattoo on.”
“And I chose to let my scars define me. We make choices. Sometimes we make choices that just make us miserable.”
“I don’t deserve for you to sit here and try to make me feel better.” He lowered his head, kissing her shoulder. “I don’t deserve any of this. I don’t deserve to touch you.”
“But I want you to.”
He grabbed hold of the back of her head, pulling her face down and kissing her intensely. She shifted, parting her thighs so that his denim-covered arousal was pressed tightly against her aroused flesh. Even with all of this, all of the pain, all of the difficult truth between them, she wanted him.
“It doesn’t make a damn bit of sense, baby,” he said, pulling away for a second, more questions than answers in his dark eyes.
“Sometimes I think I don’t make any sense. That everything inside me is just too messed up. Maybe I need a guy who’s just as messed up as I am to finally help me put things in order.”
He growled, wrapping one arm around her waist and reversing their position so that she was lying down on the floor, her body cushioned by a small, braided rug. He took his clothes off quickly, giving her a perfect view of his incredible body.
Impossibly, she felt a smile curve her lips.
“What?” he asked.
“I remember the first time I saw you without a shirt. I thought it wasn’t fair. How perfect your skin was. Now, I kinda think maybe it’s fair enough. You being so beautiful for me. And me...”