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“I think you know.”
She nods and then nods once more, like she needs the double confirmation. I keep my hands tucked at my sides, even though I want to put them to userightfuckingnow.
Carefully, she undoes the buttons of her blouse and peels it off her shoulders. She folds it neatly and drapes it on the mantle. I wish I knew why I find the attention to detail, the care,so fucking attractive.
Maybe it’s because it’s so different from how I operate.
Laila folds.
I shred.
I burn.
I destroy.
But this innocent creature is tender, even when the situation is so far beyond decorum as to be laughable.
She follows with her skirt, unzipping, folding, and placing it on top of the blouse. I watch each careful movement. Every ounce of blood in my body is concentrated below my belt. It’s agony not to touch her.
The whole thing is beyond ridiculous. I met her a week ago, and now, her bra is in a tattered heap in my office trash can, and I’ve been inside of her with nothing at all between us.
She looks good like this. Red as a rose, not with nervousness but with fire dancing over the pale skin of her bare breasts. For one perfect moment, she’s tall and beautiful.
And then, for some reason I can’t explain, I see the confidence start to leak out of her like a punctured balloon. She twists to one side as if to hide half of herself from me.
That’s y cue.
Finally,finally,I allow myself to touch her.
I reach out, taking her by the hips, and force her square to me. I relish the softness of her beneath my touch. I drink in the sight of her—her sharp collarbones, her beautiful full breasts, the flat tautness of her stomach. And then?—
A scar.
It starts at her hip and ends in the middle of her left thigh. Thick, knotted tissue meanders here and there like a flatland river. I touch a fingertip to it and frown.
She sees all the wrong things in that frown, though. “I know it’s ugly,” she mumbles, putting a hand on my wrist to try and keep me from it, to hide it from me in the shadows.
“No.” A growl rumbles through my chest. “It’s fucking glorious.”
“Yeah, right.” Her eyes are suddenly misty. “If you had a scar like this, you wouldn’t be proud.”
In answer, I pull my shirt over my head.
Laila claps a hand over her mouth. “Oh, God… Arsen.”
Her eyes travel up and down the length of my chest, taking in the tangle of scars across my torso. The product of years’ worth of hard-won lessons.
She raises a hand as if to touch me the way I touched her, but she stops halfway there, her fingers dangling helplessly in the air between us.
“It’s like someone wanted to split you in half.”
“He certainly tried.”
Worried eyes flash to mine. Finally, she presses her hand flat against my chest like she’s trying to hold me together. “What is your life like that this can— Someone tried to kill you? How can you be so cavalier about that?”
“Because they didn’t succeed.” I cup my hand over hers. “My heart still beats, stronger than before. These scars aren’t ugly; they’re proof that I was strong enough to heal. To survive.”
A single tear runs down her cheek.
