Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,71

heard her soft intake of breath. “I can look at you?” she asked. “Really look at you?”

“You’d better hurry before I change my mind.”

The bed shifted, and he could just make out her form as she moved about the room, searching for the tinder box and the lamp in the low firelight. Finally, the lamp flared, but she turned the flame down enough that the light didn’t bother him too much. And then the bed dipped again, and she took his hands.

“Are you certain?”

“I’m not certain about anything. Make it quick.”

“I don’t think so,” she murmured, and her hands slid up his arms. The dressing robe was silk, and he could feel the warmth of her through the material. When her hands reached his face, he closed his eyes. It was more reflex than anything else. He certainly couldn’t see her face as she studied him. Her fingers drifted over his features as his own had done hers just a few moments before. She slid a finger along his jaw and made a sound of approval. He rather liked that sound, and it stirred his hunger for her again.

Then her fingers slid over his lips, just a light brush. He opened his mouth to kiss her fingers, and she clucked and made a sound of admonishment. “How long will this take?” he asked, growing impatient to have her in his arms again.

“As long as I want it to,” she answered. Her fingers danced over his nose and then skipped his eyes and slid over his forehead. He knew she was deliberately giving him time to ready himself. Finally, she touched his right eyebrow, and then lightly caressed his lashes.

He knew what came next. But she took her time. She slid her hands into his hair, slowly pushing it back and off his forehead. He could feel the light on the damaged left side of his face as she moved the lock of hair he wore to cover it.

He gritted his teeth and clenched his hands, waiting for the harsh intake of her breath indicating surprise or disgust or shock. Either that or she would make a sound of pity. But as he waited, exposed and naked to her scrutiny, she said nothing and did nothing. Had the horror of his injury rendered her speechless? Was she even now trying not to retch?

He jumped when he felt her fingertips on the brow of his left eye. The brow was divided, a scar running through it. He had felt the knotted skin there but never seen it.

“Shh,” she whispered as though soothing a small child. Her fingertips were light as a feather as they brushed over his brow. They didn’t skip the scar that marred his brow but traced it as lovingly as she had traced the rest of him. Then she slid her fingers lower, over his damaged eye, barely touching the closed lid until she could also brush her fingers along the lashes of the blind eye.

To his surprise, she leaned forward and kissed his left cheek. “You are a beautiful man,” she said. “I can hardly believe I am in bed with you right now.”

He could hardly believe what she was saying. She was surprised he wanted her? Even as she looked upon the horror of his injury, she was still attracted to him. “You cannot be serious,” he said.

“I am. If you could see my face, we would not be here. I’ve told you that I’m not pretty.”

“And I am not beautiful, but you don’t know me if you think I’m the sort of man who would reject you because you have freckles or an unfashionable dress. I can see you,” he said. “And I don’t need my sight for that.”

“Then why can’t you believe the same of me? I see you, and you are much more than an injury to your left eye, Nash Pope.”

He reached for her hands, which were still holding his hair back. His hands closed on her wrists and he brought one palm to his mouth and kissed it. “Do you still want to lie with me?” he asked. Even after all she’d said and done, a small part of him held his breath, afraid she would reject him.

“More than anything,” she whispered.

He released her hand and reached for her waist, sliding his hands down until he grasped the hem of her short shift. He drew it over her head, his fingers trailing her silky skin, left bare as he drew the garment