“Why do you do that?” I ask.
“Do what?”
I give him a look that says he knows exactly what I’m talking about. “I already told you that you’re the sexiest guy I’ve ever seen—and that includes a lot of pretty impressive San Diego surf gods. So I don’t understand why it bothers you so much if I see your scar.”
He shrugs. “It doesn’t bother me if you see my scar.”
I don’t think that’s true, but I’m willing to go with it—up to a point. “Fine, it doesn’t bother you if I see it, but it definitely bothers you if I touch it.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “That doesn’t bother me, either.”
“Okay, I’m sorry, but I call bullshit.” To prove it, I lean down and press a series of hot, openmouthed kisses against his jaw. I don’t deliberately touch his scar, but I don’t shy away from it, either. And sure enough, he lasts only a few seconds before threading his fingers through my hair and gently pressing my face into the bend where his shoulder meets his neck.
Before I can say anything, though, he takes a deep breath. Then says, “It’s not that I think you’ll be disgusted by my scar or anything—you’re not that shallow.”
“Then why does it bother you so much if I go near it?”
He doesn’t answer right away, and as silence stretches between us, I think maybe he won’t answer at all. But then, just when I’ve given up, he says, “Because it reminds me of how I got it, and I don’t want you anywhere near that world. And I sure as hell don’t want that world anywhere near you.”
49
Eventually
the World Breaks
Everyone
The pain in his voice has my heart thudding slow and hard in my chest.
Sure, there’s a part of me that can’t imagine what world he’s talking about, considering I’m currently living in the middle of a fantasy novel—one complete with fantastical creatures and secrets galore. But there’s a larger part of me that just wants him to know that whatever world he’s talking about, and whatever happened to him in that world, I’m on his side.
I take my time running my palms over his chest and pressing kisses along the powerful column of his throat. He smells like oranges again, and deep water, and I sink into the scent of him, into the glorious taste and feel and sound of him.
His hands go to my hips, and he groans low in his throat as he arches against me. It feels amazing—he feels amazing. I’ve never been this intimate with a guy before, have never wanted to be, but with Jaxon, I want it all. I want to feel everything, experience everything. Maybe not now, when we’re on borrowed time, but soon.
But I also want to know what’s hurting him. Not so I can take it away—I know way better than that—but so I can share it with him. So I can understand. Which is why I roll off him just as things are getting really interesting.
He rolls with me, of course, so that now we’re stretched on our sides, facing each other. His arm is around my waist, his hand resting on my hip, and there’s a part of me that wants nothing more than to sink back into him. To just let whatever’s going to happen happen.
But Jaxon deserves better than that. And so do I.
Which is why I reach up and cup his unscarred cheek, then lean forward until our mouths are so close that we’re breathing the same air. “Believe me, I understand better than most if you don’t want to talk about what happened to you,” I whisper. “But I need you to know that if you ever want to share what happened with me, I’m more than happy to listen.”
My words aren’t sexy and they definitely aren’t slick, but they are sincere and they are heartfelt. Jaxon must sense it, too, because instead of dismissing me out of turn, as I half expected him to, he stares at me through eyes that show more than I ever imagined.
Then he kisses me—long, slow, deep—before rolling away and sitting up, with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. I sit up, too, and because I can’t leave him alone in this…whatever this turns out to be, I wrap myself around him from behind as I press soft, quick kisses to his shoulders and the back of his neck.
And then I say, “Tell me,” because I think he needs to hear me say that almost as much as he needs to tell me the story burning inside him.
I’m not sure how I expect the story to come out—whether in fits and starts or one smooth retelling—but I do know that I never could have anticipated what he says when he finally begins to speak.