Page 41 of Taken Off Camera
I lift my face to his. “Then remove it. I won’t be scared off by your scars.”
His lips brush my forehead. “I hope you’re right.”
And before he can second-guess himself, he slips off my blindfold.
11
As the blindfold falls away, light floods my vision, and I blink away the soft glow of the candles.
Colors bleed back into my world after hours of darkness, and Sebastian comes into focus, his breath held, muscles coiled tight as if preparing to flee. Raised ridges of scar tissue carve a path from his temple down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his expensive sweater.
Wariness flickers across his face as he waits for my reaction. “Now you see.”
My first instinct is to reach out, but when he flinches back, my hand freezes mid-air. Instead of touching, I study him, taking in the full picture of the man who’s been hiding behind screens andblindfolds. The scars pull at the corner of his left eye, dragging his features downward on that side. But the flecks of gold in his clear, hazel gaze holds me captive.
My fingers hover inches from his face. “Can I touch you?”
Sebastian swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion. “If you want to.”
With his permission granted, I close the distance, fingertips ghosting over the raised tissue. The texture surprises me, smoother than it appears, with valleys and ridges that form the landscape left by a horrific accident.
Sebastian flinches at first contact but doesn’t pull away.
I brush the slice through his eyebrow that could have left him blind. “What happened to you?”
“I was in a car accident when I was sixteen.” He searches my face for revulsion or pity.
My palm flattens on his cheek, cupping the scarred skin. “Does it still hurt?”
“No.” His eyelids flutter closed at my touch. “Not physically.”
But emotionally. How many people have seen his face and rejected him for these scars? My heart twists, and I reach for his hand, lifting it to flatten his palmover my sternum, letting him feel the steady, strong beat of my heart.
“See?” My lips curve into a small smile. “Not afraid. Not disgusted. Not pitying you.”
Sebastian’s shoulders drop, the first layer of tension melting away. His fingers curl, bunching the fabric of my robe. “You’re the first person who hasn’t…”
“Their loss,” I whisper, pulling him down to press my lips to the highest point of scarring near his temple. “These are marks of survival. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
A shuddering breath escapes him as his arms encircle my waist, pulling me flush to his body. The movement dislodges my poorly tied robe, which falls open, the lace of my lingerie meeting the soft fabric of his sweater.
Sebastian captures my mouth in a kiss that contains equal parts relief and hunger. His tongue slides over mine, more confident now, as if my acceptance has unleashed a desire long caged. Wine lingers on his lips, mingling with the salt of unexpected tears, his or mine, I can’t tell.
When we break for air, I tug at his sweater. “Too many clothes.”
A chuckle rumbles from his chest as he lifts hisarms, allowing me to pull the garment over his head. The scars continue down his torso, mapping a path of destruction across his left shoulder and upper arm. But what catches my attention is the definition of muscle beneath his skin, the strength evident in his broad chest and flat abdomen.
“Your turn,” he murmurs, slipping the robe from my shoulders. It pools at our feet, leaving me in nothing but emerald lace.
Sebastian’s hands hover over my hips, seeking permission. I nod, and his fingers trace the edge of the lace where it cuts across my thigh. The touch sends electricity racing up my spine, and I step backward, leading him toward my bedroom without breaking eye contact.
The backs of my knees hit the mattress, and I sink down, pulling Sebastian with me until we lay face to face on the tangled sheets. His hand cups my cheek, thumb tracing my bottom lip.
“I’ve thought about this so long,” he confesses with a rumble. “Ever since I first saw you.”
Heat pools in my stomach at his words. “Show me what you’ve imagined.”
His mouth finds mine again as his weight shifts, pressing me into the mattress. I arch into him, seeking friction, and he responds by trailing kissesdown my throat, across my collarbone, and down my chest. His tongue traces patterns over my nipples through the lace, the dual sensation of wet heat and textured fabric pulling a moan from deep in my chest.
