He was wearing only a pair of boxer shorts. His shoulders and arms, as she knew, were well formed, the muscles taut and defined. His belly was flat, and beneath it, his sex was appreciably full, even while relaxed.
Beyond his lap were his legs. Last night she had made a point to show no interest in them because of his self-consciousness. Apparently, their lovemaking had convinced him that his apprehension was unnecessary. He wouldn’t be sitting here now with his legs exposed, making no attempt to cover them, if he didn’t want her to see them.
So she looked.
And it was impossible to conceal her reaction. She stopped just short of gasping out loud, but the sudden catch in her breath couldn’t have been missed, especially since he was watching her so closely.
His features were rigidly set. His eyes were shuttered. His voice sliced like a razor. “I warned you that it wasn’t pretty.”
“Oh, my darling, you were terribly, horribly hurt.”
She slid from the bed to kneel in front of him. Shark attack was the first thing that came to mind. She’d seen pictures of victims who’d barely escaped with their lives, having huge chunks of their flesh mangled or ripped away. Parker’s scars could be compared only to something that vicious.
The worst of them was a hollow as large as her fist where a section of his quadriceps had been gouged out. From there a scar cut a gully half an inch wide down the entire length of his right thigh and curved around toward the back of his knee. On his lower legs was a network of crisscrossing scars, some raised and bumpy, while others looked like flat, shiny ribbons of plastic that had been stretched between puckered skin. His calves were disproportionately small and flaccid. He was missing the smallest two toes on his right foot.
Overwhelmed with compassion for the agony he must have suffered, she timorously traced one of the raised scars with her fingertip. “Do they still hurt?”
“Sometimes.”
She looked up at him sorrowfully, then leaned forward and kissed one of the worst of the scars that snaked up his shin. Reaching down, he stroked her cheek. She lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed the palm.
He said, “Now that your morbid curiosity has been satisfied, can we get in one fast fuck before breakfast?”
She yanked her head back. “What?”
“I think you heard me.”
As shocked as if he’d struck her, she stood up, reached for her nightgown, and held it against her, a flimsy shield. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing except an early morning woodie that needs your attention.”
She shook her head in befuddlement. The coarse language wasn’t that startling. But he wasn’t being naughty for naughtiness’ sake. No flirtatious wink accompanied his words. He was being purposefully, hurtfully crude. “Why are you acting like this?”
“This is what I’m like, Maris.”
“No, you’re not.”
He gave a dismissive shrug. “Okay, whatever.” He pushed his chair backward, then turned it away from her and headed across the room toward the chifforobe. “I’ve got something for you.”
“Parker?” she called in exasperation.
“What?”
“Why are you acting this way? I don’t understand. What happened between last night and this morning?”
“You don’t remember? Well, let’s see. Between last night and this morning, I’d say your orgasms outnumbered mine about two to one, but after your fifth or sixth, I honestly lost count. Of course, with women it’s sometimes hard to tell when one leaves off and another starts, or if they’re even for real. But if you fake it, honey, you fake it convincingly.”
He’d opened the door to the chifforobe and removed a box from one of the interior drawers. Now he spun around and faced her, grinning cruelly as he looked her up and down. “And I’ll say this for you, Mrs. Matherly-Reed. You’re tight. As a goddamn fist. And wet as a mouth. Very nice. I wonder why your husband went out for it.”
Tears of mortification filled her eyes. Angrily she swiped one away as it slid down her cheek. Hastily, she pulled on her nightgown, the only article of clothing available. “I don’t know what’s the matter with you, but I won’t continue this. I can’t match you for vulgarity.”
“Sure you can. You’ve got an expansive vocabulary. Maybe not one as colorful as mine, but if you put your mind to it, I’ll bet you come up with something suitable to say. Maybe on your plane ride back to New York. I assume you’re leaving.”
Not even deigning to answer, she headed for the door. “Wait!” He rolled his chair over to her. “Envy. The final draft.”
He practically thrust the box into her hands, so she had no choice but to take it. She looked at it, then at him. “It’s finished?”
“Has been. All along. From the beginning. What you’ve been reading in installments is the polishing draft.”