Sensing me, he puts the phone on the counter behind him and looks in my direction. He swallows. Hard.
Maybe he’s having second thoughts.
Maybe he’s not sure if he can take it.
I can do this.
Without looking at him, I untie the cord holding the cover-up closed, pull the fabric away from my shoulders, and let it fall to the floor.
It’s only then that I look up.
Noah is staring at me, but the expected repulsion on his face is absent.
What is there?
Lust.
Hot. Body-trembling. Lust.
His gaze sweeps over me and the heat in his eyes intensifies—igniting a fire deep in my belly.
This isn’t what I was expecting.
Or maybe he hasn’t really seen the scars.
Maybe he’s just taken by my breasts.
He slowly approaches me and drops to his knee. Part of me wants to snatch up my robe from the floor and cover the scars.
Another part of me is curious about his reaction. It tells me to stay put.
That’s the voice I listen to.
He lifts his hand and gently rests it on the worst of the scars. It’s long and thick with short deep lines intercepting it for the entire length. Think Frankenstein.
There are also shorter, equally noticeable scars on my thighs from shattered glass and serrated metal edges that bit into my skin during the accident.
He moves closer to a scar that covers a portion of my upper thigh and lightly kisses it.
He then takes his time kissing each scar, making sure none are left wanting.
Unlike my stepmother who—in her trying-to-be-helpful way—leaves me feeling like an ugly stepsister, Noah makes me feel the opposite.
He makes me feel beautiful. Worthy.
Wanted.
Oh God, and do I ever want him.
I thread my fingers through the soft strands of his hair. He looks up at me, searching my own heated gaze.
He stands, and before I realize what he’s doing, he has me on the counter, his hard body pressed between my legs.
He shifts closer to me so his thick length is pressed against my core. “Do you feel that?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“Does it feel like I find you undesirable?”
