Garnet (Gems of Wolfe Island)

“Because why?”

“Because, Buck, it may be the last time I can see them alive.”

An invisible sword slices through me. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Her face goes rigid, her countenance stoic. “Whoever did this to me is going down, Buck. I’ll do it with or without your help, but they’re going down, and if I have to go down with them, so be it.”

26

ASPEN

The words leave my mouth before I can think them through, but even as I hear myself say them, I know their truth.

Inside my heart—my soul—I know their truth.

For the first time I’m feeling alive. So damned alive.

I feel like I have a purpose now. To find whoever did this to me and take them down no matter what the cost.

But Buck is right about one thing. I do need to see my parents. I need to let them believe that I’m okay.

Whether I am or not.

I turn to him, cup both his cheeks, and let his stubble scrape my palms.

Then I bring his mouth to mine.

I don’t have to prod him or pressure him. He responds to my kiss immediately, and what a kiss it is. Open-mouthed and heavenly. Tongues, teeth, lips…

It’s a raucous, ravaging kiss.

Again, I feel so alive. So alive and perfect and wonderful.

I need him. I want him. I want him to see who I am.

My whole body, with all its scars and missing parts.

And God… I want to see his body. His majestic and perfect body.

Except—

He breaks the kiss.

My fingers go instantly to my lips. They’re stinging. They’re stinging in a wonderful way, and I whimper at the loss of his lips on mine.

“Baby…” he growls.

“Please, Buck. I want you. I need you. Please…”

“I shouldn’t have ever—”

“Don’t say that.” I touch his lips.

He kisses my fingertips and then brushes my hand away. “You have no idea how much I want you.”

“I think I do.”

“Aspen, you’re hell-bent on revenge right now. It’s not sex you want.”

“No, it’s you. I want you, Buck. You. I want your mouth back on mine. I want it now.”

He groans, but then he crushes our lips together.

Crazy. As much as my body was used and abused and tortured—how is it that I want sex now?

It’s not the sex.

It’s the man. This man. His six three to my six feet, and this couch—it’s too small for us. Yet I don’t want to break the kiss to lead him to the bed.

No. It’s imperative that our mouths stay together. I don’t know why, but it is. His kisses are rough, passionate, raw, and feral. And they… God, they drive me wild.

There was no kissing on the island. None. It wasn’t forbidden, but those degenerates weren’t after kissing. They came to hunt. To abuse, to torture.

Not to kiss. Kissing was way too intimate.

And God, I’ve missed kissing.

Even so… No one has ever kissed me like Buck Moreno. Not Brandon or anyone else.

And this kiss? This kiss is more than a simple meeting of mouths. It’s a moment of truth. It’s showing me that I can be a real person again.

That I can have my life back.

And that I can have what I long for.

Revenge.

I want to take out all my frustrations on Buck’s body, but I don’t want to use him. He has to want this too, and judging by his kiss? He does.

I won’t be the one to break the kiss, but—

He breaks it, my mouth stinging and tingling again.

“Bed,” he says gruffly. Then he picks me up, throws me over his shoulder as if I were nothing more than a sack of potatoes, and takes me to the bed.

He lays me down on my back, pulls off my shoes and jeans. He takes off his shirt, and then he hovers above me, kisses my mouth, and then slowly pulls up my shirt.

He’s seen me naked, but now he’s going to look. Truly look at me.

He’s going to see what they did to me.

All the scars… The missing nipple…

I want to bring myself to care. To tell him not to look. But I can’t.

Because I want him more than I want to ease the ache of embarrassment.

Up my shirt goes, sliding slowly, until he pulls it over my head. Now only my bra separates me from him seeing everything, looking at everything.

He touches me then, trails his fingers over all the scars on my belly, leaving sparks in his wake. My bra still hides the most wretched part. He leans down, slides his lips where his fingers were, caressing each scar, kissing it, licking it, making my capillaries burst with heat and energy.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs.

Beautiful? My scars?

I’m still me. But I’m no longer beautiful. I’m not sure I ever was.

“God, you are.” As if he’s responding.

I know I didn’t speak aloud. He’s reading my mind, which is a little frightening but also comforting.