Page 79 of Bottles & Blades

His face?—

It makes my throat grow even tighter.

“Youarebeautiful,” he says again, his fingers brushing along the edge of a scar on my abdomen, one he must have spotted before I finished pulling the shirt down. “Definitely on the outside, but more importantly,here.”He touches the spot above my heart. “On the inside. And, baby, that beauty takes my breath away.”

My eyes burn.

“Because you’re sweet and smart, kind and funny.” He lifts the edge of the shirt, exposing the rest of my scar. It’s from one of several abdominal surgeries I had and he touches it reverently. “Thisis beautiful. It’s a reminder that you’re here. That I get to be here with you.”

“What if it comes back?” I whisper.

He settles his forehead against mine, palm flattening on my belly.

He’s touching all of my scars—one at the top of his pointer finger, another at the base of his pinky, one under his palm, along with the smaller marks left from less invasive surgeries.

It’s a roadmap of my health.

A reminder every time I look in the mirror.

There are more marks in other places—from central lines and grafts and other procedures—but I don’t protest as he lifts me onto the counter, slowly draws his T-shirt up, gathering it beneath my breasts, and bends, his mouth hovering just above my skin.

“Smart,” he whispers, pressing his lips to each of the reminders. “Sweet. Kind. Funny. Beautiful.”

He lifts the shirt higher, and even though I’m more exposed than I’ve ever been in my life, I can’t bring myself to stop him. Not when every kiss is soothing another hurt buried deep inside me.

His kiss to the scar above my heart is so gentle I nearly melt. “Smart,” he says again.

Another to the one on my biceps. “Sweet.”

Several around my neck. “Kind. Funny.”

One near my armpit. “Beautiful.”

“Jean-Mi?—”

His lips trail down, tracing along the outside of my breast, making me shiver. But he doesn’t drift closer to my nipple, beaded and aching for his lips. He drags his mouth upward, back along my throat, tracing the line of my jaw, not stopping until he’s pressing his lips to the spot behind my ear.

His touches are reverent, soft…more beautiful than anything I’ve ever experienced.

And they’ve left me hungry.

Before I can act on that hunger, he lifts his head, steps back, reaches into a drawer, and pulls out a spare toothbrush for me, putting a bead of toothpaste on it.

Then his fingers are working at the buttons on his shirt.

I feel my eyes go wide and that hungry grows as the material parts, exposing a broad, tanned chest.

I’ve seen it clad in a tight T-shirt.

Thisis a hundred times better.

Defined pecs, a smattering of hair, a flat stomach with a hint of strong muscles etched below.

And more hunger.

Morebetter.

He shrugs out of his shirt, tossing it into a hamper in the corner of the room then peels off his socks, one at a time. When he flicks open the button on his slacks, shoves them down, leaving him clad only in a tight pair of black boxer briefs I feel my cheeks go hot.

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