Page 114 of Ruthless Scar
My hands are on her face. Scarred palms against her cheekbones. Her eyes wet. Her mouth swollen from the kiss I gave her.
“Lorenzo.” Quiet. Certain. Like a fact she’s decided on.
I have killed more people than I can count and my hands have never shaken. They’re shaking now. Her fingers come up to my wrists. Not pulling. Holding. Steadying me.
“I know.”
“Kiss me again.”
I do. Slower this time. She makes a sound against my lips that settles low in my spine.
I stop. Force myself to look at her. Stay.
For years, I fucked in the dark. No names. No staying. Those rules kept me alive. Every one of them kept me from this.
“I want to see you.” Rough. “All of you.”
“Then look.”
I reach for her shirt. Slow. She lifts her arms. I pull the fabric and she unhooks the bra herself. Lets it fall. Collarbone. The fading bruise at her hip. Ribs expanding with each breath.
She reaches for my shirt. My hand catches her wrist. Instinct. A decade of reflex.
Her eyes find mine. She doesn’t pull. Doesn’t push. Just waits.
I let go. She lifts the shirt over my head.
I stand there. The knife scar across my ribs. The burn on my shoulder. The line under my collarbone. The ink. Family crest over my heart.
Her fingers find the knife scar. Light. She traces the ridge from start to end. I hold still because the sensation is foreign. Not pain. Not a threat. She moves to the burn. Maps it. Then the collarbone line. Each scar acknowledged.
I take her hand. Press it flat over the crest. Over my heart.
Her palm cups the beat. Steady. She presses harder. Like she’s counting. Like they belong to her.
They do.
I guide her to the bed. Her legs hit the edge. She sits. I stand between her knees. She reaches for my belt. Unbuckles it. The sound of leather. She pushes the pants down and I step out of them. She wraps around me, stroking, watching my face like she’s memorizing every reaction.
“You look at me like that and I won’t last.”
“That’s the idea.”
Her grip releases. She shifts back on the mattress. I follow, sitting on the edge beside her. She reaches to the nightstand drawer. She pulls out the blindfold. The same strip of dark fabric I tied over her eyes in this room. The one I used so she couldn’t watch me go gentle. So she couldn’t see what I did when I thought she wasn’t looking.
“My turn.”
Her hand finds my chest. Pressing back. I let her.
The mattress catches me.
Every muscle locks.
“You put this on me so I couldn’t see you being so caring.” She holds the fabric between us. “Now I’m putting it on you.”
“Isabella.”
“Do you trust me?”
