"You don't know what I'm thinking."
"You're considering every mark on your skin, wondering what I'll think when I see them." He reached out and covered my knuckles where they gripped the shirt's hem. "I've already seen them. They don't change anything."
I lifted the shirt slowly, peeling it away from my bandages and healing tissue. The cool air raised goosebumps along my ribs, but Matthew's eyes didn't linger on the damage. He concentrated on capturing my gaze.
He encouraged me to make the next move. "Your turn to touch."
I placed my palm against his smooth chest, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath his warm skin. I let my fingers start to roam across muscle and bone.
When my thumb rubbed his scar, Matthew bit his lip. "Afghanistan?" I asked.
"IED. Same blast that killed Farid—or that I thought killed him." His hand covered mine, pressing my palm more firmly against his chest. "Piece of shrapnel missed my heart by maybe two inches."
I leaned forward and kissed the raised tissue, tasting salt and the faint residue of shower soap. Matthew's sharp intake of breath encouraged me to continue, to map his flesh with my mouth instead of only my eyes.
He kneaded my shoulders with his powerful hands. When they drifted lower, tracing the edge of my bandages, I stiffened involuntarily. He asked, "What do you need?"
"I need—" I swallowed hard, searching for words. "I need you to keep caressing and stroking me. But slowly. Like you have time."
"I have all the time you want."
His hands resumed their exploration, palms sliding down my sides. When he reached the waistband of my jeans, he paused, fingers resting against the metal button.
I answered the question before he could ask it. "Yes."
The denim whispered against my legs as he worked it down my hips, his knuckles brushing against newly exposed skin. I stepped out of the fabric, standing before him in only the boxer briefs I'd borrowed from his drawer.
Matthew's gaze traveled the length of my body, not appraising or judging, but witnessing. I fought the urge to cover myself and hide the evidence of what I'd endured. My arms began to cross over my chest before Matthew's hands caught them, fingers circling my wrists.
"I want to see all of you." He guided my arms back to my sides and stepped closer until our bodies nearly touched. "Can I?" His fingers hooked in the elastic of my underwear.
I nodded. My throat was too tight to allow words.
The last barrier disappeared, leaving me completely exposed in his small bedroom. Vulnerable in a way I'd trained myself never to be. I saw only reverence in Matthew's expression, as if I were something precious rather than damaged.
He shed his remaining clothes with efficient movements. He joined me on the bed, settling beside me rather than over me. "Tell me what feels good." He leaned in to press his lips against the sensitive skin below my ear.
"I don't—I'm not sure I know."
"Then let's figure it out."
Matthew's mouth moved lower, tracing the column of my throat with gentle pressure. When he found the spot where my pulse beat against thin skin, I gasped.
"That. That feels—"
"Good?"
"Different. New. I know it matters that it's you."
Matthew lifted his head to look at me. "It does matter. It matters to me that it's you, too."
His fingers found the sensitive skin of my inner wrist, and I arched toward him unconsciously. As he traced the sharp jut of my hip bone, I heard myself make a sound I didn't recognize.
"You're responsive."
"Is that—good?"
"It's honest. I like honesty."
