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“We both have scars.” I tilted my chin over my shoulder, trying to catch his eyes. He was closer than I thought as his breath caressed the top of my head. “A knife. A belt. Different weapons, same wounds.”

I watched his eyes flick back and forth between my face and my back. His hand continued to move and explore, languidly, up and down, journeying all the way up until his fingertips tickled the nape of my neck and caught with my hair.

My head tipped back.

I arched into his touch, my chest seizing with comfort, want, and warmth.

The ebbing adrenaline left me boneless and sagging against his chest as his hand fisted my hair. A shot of desire funneled downward, settling between my legs. We were too close. Whitney and Tara were sleeping one floor above us, and I was wearing nothing but a bra and leggings as I pressed against him, letting his heat swallow me up.

His breathing was shallow as his other hand lifted, his fingertips ever-so-softly dancing up the side of my body, grazing my scraped skin.

It didn’t hurt. The pain was gone, replaced by euphoria.

The back of my head rolled against the ridges of his chest as his fingers tangled in my hair, fingertips massaging my scalp. His left hand continued its ascent up my body, skimming the side of my breast as he released a long, hoarse breath.

And then he cupped me.

He palmed my breast with one hand as my nipple hardened to a tight peak.

I moaned.

It was a raspy, begging sound. I wanted his hands all over me, awakening my deadened pieces. He told me there was a fire inside me and that all I needed was a spark. Reed was my spark.

Keep touching me, Reed.

Bring me back to life.

But instead of drawing him closer, the sound of my moan froze him out, blowing frost in his face. In the stretch of a heartbeat, he went eerily still, his hand still cupped around my breast.

Reed pulled away.

He shot back as if I were the spark, and I’d just scalded him.

“Sorry.” His tone was rougher than sandpaper. “I need to go.”

I turned around, confused, mortified, and helplessly turned on.

Above all, I was angry.

Angry at myself.

I watched as he backed out of the bathroom, my skin flushed, breathing labored, underwear soaked through. Before he spun around to leave, I panned my gaze south and caught the noticeable tent in his pajama pants.

He was hard.

Swollen. Huge.

Reed stabbed a hand through his hair, his eyes pinched closed, then pivoted all the way around and yanked open the bathroom door, disappearing into the hallway before I could say another word.

I stood there, shivering. Alone. Torn apart, physically and mentally. I held in the growl of lust-laced misery as I finished cleaning up and tending to my injuries. Neosporin. Bandages. It was enough to cover the outer wounds, but the flush on my cheeks and the arousal in my eyes spoke of a thousand other battles raging beneath the surface.

I splashed cool water on my face and tugged the tank top back over my head.

Then I raced from the bathroom and hauled myself up the staircase to the bedroom I shared with Tara, ignoring Reed’s hunched-over stance on the couch with his head in his hands.

My best friend was fast asleep in bed, burrowed under the covers. Only a mound of brown hair poked out on the pillowtop as her light snores penetrated the room.

Quietly, I tiptoed over to my own bed and slithered underneath the blankets. I rolled onto my back and stared up at the ceiling, my pulse pounding in my veins and between my thighs.

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