Iapproached him without speaking another word, taking hisjacketand throwing it back on the couch. My hands did the talking, as they slid upthe front of his plaid button-down shirt and felt the contours of his stomachunderneath the soft fabric, before resting against his chest. I stood on mytoes, beckoning him in for a kiss, and when he obliged me, offering histongueand moaning into my mouth, I decided I wasn’t waitingany longer to be sure about this, or him.
Asif reading my mind, he picked me up and carried me to my room, like the gallanthero that he always was. I hoped he would throw me on the bed and truly exhibithis strength, backed purely by carnal intent, just like the men I wrote about.But instead, he laid me down with care and adoration. Our clothes were slowlystripped, landing on the floor in haphazard fashion, until there was nothingleft but us.
Forthe first time, I saw every inch of his body, and he could see every inch ofmine. In that moment, I felt self-conscious and ashamed, unable to keep myhands off my scar, wanting to hide it and make it disappear. And I couldn’ttake my eyesoff ofhis.
“Letme see,” he coaxed gently, taking myhandsand pryingthem away from my lower belly.
Itwas still so new and fresh, and it still ached and twinged. One side waspuffier than the other, and although my doctor had insisted it was normal anddone beautifully, I hated it. I hated everything about it. How it felt, how itlooked, and what it represented. It was a constant reminder that my body wasn’tgood enough for my baby, and that I had to be cut open for him to be putsomewhere better. Somewheresafer. Safer thanme.
“Theydid a good job,” he said, as if I should take it as a compliment.
“Thanks,”I replied dryly, not knowing what else to say but wanting so desperately to runaway from the moment and back into my clothes.
“Youhate it, though.”
Mybottom lip quivered as I nodded. “I really do.”
Hebent over to press his lips gently against it, treating it as a treasure andnot as a curse, before rising again on his knees. He didn’t wait for me to askabout the scar that ran the width of his abdomen, just above his belly button,as he laid a hand over it.
“Thatday, when my troop was ambushed, I was sliced right here,” he said, tracing thethick, white, puckered line with his finger. “I was quick with the gun but thisone bastard I hadn’t noticed before was quicker with his machete, and he got mereally bad. And Idunnoif itwasthe adrenaline or what, but I hadn’t even realized what happened to me untilafter I had called it in and I couldn’t stand on my feet anymore. I lost ashitload of blood, and honestly, it was fuckin’ amazing that they could evenput me back together.”
Mybreath tripped in my throat as I whispered, “Jesus.”
“Yeah,it was bad,” he agreed, nodding. “I told you before, I should’ve died. It wasplain, dumb luck that I didn’t. And I hated this scar for a long fuckin’ time.Every time I felt it, it was like … like a time machine, taking me back to thatday. I could feel every goddamn thing, like it was still happening.”
Tearssprung to my eyes and my heart raced to a gallop, as I nodded my silentagreement. Because I might not have fought a war in the traditional sense, butI was fighting a battle every single day. Except the enemy I was in combatwith, was me.
“Idon’t …” I took a deep breath, then continued, “I don’t even know how you cantalk about it, after everything you went through. Because I can hardly standthinking about mysituation, andtalking about it justseems like … like fucking torture.”
“Alot of vets can never talk about it,” he explained gently. “Hell, I rarely do,but I talk to you because I feel like I can. And maybe one day, you’ll be ableto talk about it, too. Or maybe not. Maybe you’ll never want to, maybe you’llhate that scar for the rest of your life. But something I learned about mine isthat,it isn’t necessarily a reminder of how I almostdied,” he went on, tracing the silvery line one more time. “It’s the proof thatI survived, and that’s the part I choose to hold onto instead of all the badshit that came along with it. And that’s what I hope for you, too.”
Withthose final words, and in a surge of desperation and pure, primal need, Ireached for him with both hands, grappling for his arms and pulling him down tome. We kissed with a divine passion, tangling fingers with hair and limbs withlimbs, and as our bodies aligned and joined, my face tightened as a pained gasppassed through my lips.
“Areyou okay?” he asked immediately, stroking his thumb across my cheek.
Imet his concerned eyes and nodded. “Yeah. It’s just … a little sore,” I said,wincing before smiling apologetically. “I’m okay, though.”
“You’resure? Because—”
Ishook my head, pressing my hands to his cheeks. “I’d tell you if I wasn’t.”Goose watched me in doubtful pause, and I said, “I promise, it’s fine.”
Itwas more than fine. It was slow and delicate, an artful display of emotion andnot the frenzied coupling I’d always imagined it’d be. He touched me like Icould break under his hand and I thought that I might, as my body wasreintroduced to sex and intimacy. But it was sweet, and it was perfect, justlike him, and afterward, I clung to his body, hoping we could stay in that bed forever.
“You’reokay?” he asked again, trailing his fingers through my hair.
“Yeah,”I replied, nodding against his chest. “I’ll be okay.”
“That’skindaimplying that you’renotokay.”
“No,really, I am.”
Heexhaled like he’d been holding his breath, then nodded. “I’ll take your wordfor it.”
Welaid there for a few minutes in silence, just living inside the sanctity of ourhearts beating and the bubble of happiness I knew would burst at any moment,because that’s how life is. But for the moment, this was bliss and it was ours,and before I fell asleep, I whispered, “I love you, Eric.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Pancakeswoke me up the next morning, as the sweet scent wafted through the apartment,and I opened my eyes to see Goose carrying in a loaded plate and a glass fullof orange juice.
