Page 152 of Let Me In

The kind of lotion that smells faintly herbal—lavender, mint, something warm and grounding underneath.

He meets my eyes.

“I want to soothe you,” he says, soft. “If you’ll let me.”

My breath catches.

And I nod.

He turns back the quilt slowly, revealing me to the air again.

His hand brushes my hip.

“Roll over, little one.”

I do.

Carefully.

My skin still sensitive. Still marked.

But I trust him.

God, I trust him.

He dips his fingers into the jar.

Then rests one hand on the small of my back.

The other—cool with lotion—touches the curve of my backside.

I tense.

Not from fear.

From everything.

The ache.

The awe.

The weight of what this means.

He begins to move in slow circles.

Soft.

Soothing.

His touch is light, but not distant. He knows what he’s doing—knows how deep the sting lingers. Knows how to rub it away, inch by inch.

God, it feels like belonging.

His fingers work down to the tops of my thighs, where the skin still throbs gently with every beat of my heart.

My cheeks flush.

But I don’t stop him.

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