His hands, huge as they were, were tender as he grasped her shoulders and pulled her toward him. She leaned into his palm when he cupped her face. “You’re beautiful,” he told her.
She knew he meant it. Peirce’s blunt honesty was what she considered the greatest of his qualities. Men at her father’s parties had told her the same thing, often when drunk, their words leaving her uncomfortable and awkward. She’d never believed that she was beautiful until now, when those impossibly light blue eyes were on her and her alone.
This kiss was leisurely and deliberate and sent a flood of heat through her body.
“We’re going to take this slow,” he warned her as she tried to press closer to him. “I need it to be good for you.”
She was fine until he reached to lift off the shift and all the memories and fears and worries woke.
“C-can’t we turn the lights off?” she stammered.
“I want to see all of you.” The fabric was gone, leaving her exposed to the cool air of the room and his suddenly all-too-serious face.
She wanted to cross her arms over herself and hide the scars but he was already looking away from them, checking her, making sure she was okay.
“We all have scars,” he said simply.
And just like that, the tension was gone.
The scars were just part of who she was. It wasn’t the end of the world to show another person what she’d gone through down in the depths of Plymouth.
Peirce proved that as he lay her down on the bed and ran his hands over her skin like she would break from his touch, kissed her so carefully it physically pained her when he’d pull away to catch his breath. The rasp of his stubble against her cheeks, her neck, her collarbone, gave her goose bumps.
His mouth roamed her body, his attention focused on each and every mark, each brand of the terror she’d endured that was now seared into her skin. The jagged line where a burning board had fallen onto her thigh, trapping her leg until she pulled it away and beat out the flames with her hands. The raised gouge on her side where a sharp flake of stone had lodged itself during the explosion. The slim, nearly invisible line under her left breast, curving down over ribs. When Peirce’s tongue traced that one, she couldn’t stop her breath from catching as she tried to clamp down the dark memory.
He stopped when he heard that sound, looked up at her, eyes concerned. “It’s just me,” he whispered.
She nodded once and ran a hand through his short hair. Her racing heart slowed when he closed his eyes and sighed at her touch. With infinite care, he worked his way back up to her mouth. She was desperate to touch him. She ran her hands over his skin, taking in his scars.
Each scar she explored made her more grateful he was there with her. So many near brushes with death, so many times he shouldn’t have come home. But, impossibly, he had.
The bite marks were the most shocking, changing the landscape of the muscles and bone beneath the skin. He pulled back just a bit when she ran her hand over his side again, slowly this time.
“Did it hurt?” she asked.
“I thought it’d kill me.” He kissed her again, tolerantly accepting the way her fingers dipped down into the depressions left from the teeth.
“How—”
“Not now.” He took her hand from his side, pressing her fingertips to his lips as he threaded his fingers with hers. “Later.”
He ignored her murmured protest and worked his way lower, kissing down her ribs, her stomach, the curve of her hip.
“I love that you have curves,” he growled appreciatively into her skin as his hands gripped her waist.
And then his mouth was moving lower, sending up sparks of lust that were almost overwhelming.
“Peirce?” she asked breathlessly, unsure of his intentions.
The slow slide of his tongue over that intimate flesh stole the air from her lungs. She wriggled away from the sensation but his arms pinned her hips to the mattress. The next slow lick found her muscles loosening. His rumble of contentment just pushed her higher toward some plateau she was suddenly desperate to reach.
His attention seemed to go on forever, until she was writhing under him, begging him to do something to slake the fire he’d started under her skin. Only then did he finally relent. His fingers kept gliding over her, driving her toward insanity as he loomed above her and promised that no matter what happened, he’d protect her for the rest of her life.
She could feel him pressing against her slick skin and she squirmed against the pressure from that invasion. He froze above her, supported on his elbows, neck corded.
She pressed a kiss against his throat, afraid he’d lose his nerve. “Please, Peirce.”
“Emma—”