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Olivia nods like she understands. Then she slides her hand to my left arm and slowly rolls up my sleeve.

When I notice what she’s doing, I stop her. “Don’t…please.”

She pauses, her eyes intent on mine. Her sweet scent of clean cotton wafts to my nostrils and I rake in a desperate inhale.

Life. Love. Second chances. That’s what she smells like.

“Please,” she repeats. Her tongue dips out.

Heat gathers behind my rib cage and travels south. My cock stiffens when I take in her full lips.

Deep pink. Plump. The perfect curve for me to lick, suck, and bite.

My mouth waters and I slowly drop my grip on her wrist to see what she’ll do.

Olivia rolls up my sleeve and flips my arm over. I close my eyes and brace myself.

I know the moment she sees it, because a sharp gasp echoes in the room.

“Rex.”

Not Mr. Anderson. Not Rex-a-Million.

Just Rex.

My name sounds beautiful on her lips.

I open my eyes, finding her staring at my forearm.

“It’s not your fault.” She lifts my arm and slowly, excruciatingly, presses her mouth on my small, raised scars.

Permanent reminders of where I’ve carved up my skin. For the next eight years after the funeral, I’d find more rocks to continue my pain, to scratch at the invisible itch. I’d wear long sleeves or tell my brothers I banged myself up at school. The scars weren’t big enough to sound alarms. It became a calming routine—making those around me laugh during the day, letting out the pain in my room at night.

Until my hormones kicked in and I discovered girls, and later on, alcohol and partying.

“You, my friend, are addicted to things that make you forget. You like to run away from your troubles.”

Casey’s right, as always, and the old phantom itch strikes again.

My fingers twitch, needing to scratch at the scar or reach for my pills. Or throw myself at Elias’s mercy and ask him for more jobs even though I botched the first one he gave me and will probably fuck this one up too.

It doesn’t matter. I need a distraction, no matter how dangerous, to make me forget.

Anything but think about the past, or about the temptation the woman before me represents.

My doctor. A gentle, pure soul. Complete acceptance and no judgment.

Forbidden.

But nothing prepares me for what Olivia does next.

She closes her eyes. Her thick black lashes, tipped in wetness, fan across her pale cheeks.

She kisses the scars. Soft caresses. I feel them on my cock. A growl rumbles from my chest and a flush crawls up her neck before invading her face.

What a pretty pink flush.

I want more. I want to see it over her creamy tits, spreading on her stomach. I want to know if the pink is the same color as her pussy or if those folds are a deeper hue—a dusky rose or a shade of coral?