Page 61 of The Scars I Bare
No turning back now.
As I pulled the fabric completely down and began to unlock the prosthesis, her eyes widened—not so much in horror, but in fascination. She was after all a nurse, and I thought being able to see my injury healed after all this time was sort of rewarding for the woman who’d cared for it so long ago.
When the whole thing was off, sweat was beading at my temples, and my hand was shaking as she leaned forward to take a closer look.
Her hand reached out, but she stopped short. “It’s healed nicely. May I?”
I nodded, swallowing hard as her fingers gently touch the skin around my residual limb. Feeling someone else’s touch there was surprisingly wonderful.
“See? Not so terrifying after all,” I managed to say between breaths.
She smiled sweetly. “You’re beautiful, Dean.”
I let out a nervous laugh. Being here with her, so exposed, so vulnerable—hell, I’d rather be naked in front of the entire town.
“Not nearly as beautiful as you,” I whispered, my heart racing in my chest.
“Now, I’m supposed to do a scary thing?”
I nodded.
“What?” she asked, looking nervous.
“It’s your stage, Cora. Do as little or as much as you want, but know this: I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not ever. If all we do is talk for the next five years, it will be the best five years of my life.”
She smiled. “That’s a lot of talking,” she said, leaning closer.
I could smell her freshly washed hair as it fell in waves off her shoulder.
Coconut and wildflowers.
Her eyes lingered on my mouth as she placed a tentative hand beside me on the couch.
“You don’t have to—” I began before a single finger came to rest on my lips, halting my words.
“If my heart is beating wildly and my breath is ragged, can’t that be considered scary?” she whispered.
“Yes,” I answered, my eyes meeting hers.
It took every bit of strength I had not to reach up and kiss her, not to taste those lips I’d been staring at for ages, or not to run my fingers through her hair.
But this was her stage.
Her moment.
So, I sat back and let her have it.
Every wonderful, torturous moment.
She bent forward and then pulled back, no doubt talking herself through it. Her fingers brushed the skin of my forearm before curling into a ball at her waist. I wanted to tell her this whole thing was too much, that I wasn’t worth it.
But I knew there had already been one too many men in her life telling her what she could and couldn’t do.
I could see the decision in her eyes the moment she made it. A mixture of determination and perhaps something else—desire maybe—flashed deep in those dark brown eyes of hers.
God, what I wouldn’t do to make this woman mine.
Those were the words running through my mind as our lips touched. That was the prayer I sent up to a god I hoped was listening as I pulled her closer, tasting her for the first time, drinking her in as she moaned in my mouth, parting her lips ever so softly.
