Page 72 of Mortify

He pulls it off, and I trace the scars that map his body.

Knife wounds, bullet holes, a lifetime of violence written on his skin.

"So many stories," I murmur.

"Not all of them are good."

"But they made you who you are." I press a kiss to a particularly nasty scar over his ribs. "And I like who you are."

His breath shudders out. "Everly?—"

I silence him with another kiss, braver now.

My hands explore the planes of his chest, feeling muscles jump under my touch.

He's holding himself so still, letting me lead, and something about that control makes me feel powerful.

When's the last time I felt powerful in bed?

When's the last time my pleasure mattered?

"You can touch me," I whisper against his mouth. "I won't break."

"I know you won't." His hands slide up my sides, thumbs brushing just under my breasts. "But I want this to be good for you. Want to erase every bad memory and replace it with this."

The words make my throat tight.

My dress comes off slowly, his hands reverent as they reveal new skin.

I wait for the criticism—too soft here, not tight enough there.

Instead, his eyes darken with want.

"Beautiful," he breathes, and the way he says it—rough, awed—makes me almost believe him.

Even with the bruises Dylan left, fading now to yellow-green shadows.

Even with my body already changing from pregnancy, my breasts tender and fuller.

Even broken and scared and barely holding together.

He makes me feel beautiful.

His lips follow the path of his hands, pressing kisses to my collarbone, the swell of my breasts, the sensitive skin of my ribs.

When he encounters a bruise, he gentles further, like he can kiss away the pain Dylan caused.

"Tell me if anything?—"

"I will," I promise. "But don't treat me like glass. I need to feel... I need to remember what it's like when it's good."

He understands.

His touch firm, still careful, but no longer hesitant.

When his mouth closes over my nipple, I gasp, back arching.

"Sensitive?" he murmurs.

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