Had she ever been special to anyone else in her entire life? Had she ever been special to her parents? Had she ever been special to her husband?
Had she ever been special to herself? Or had she simply been so afraid she’d set about to make herself whatever she needed to be in order to keep from feeling lonely? Keep from feeling exposed? Had she ever mattered enough to her own self to demand a thing?
Not beyond that one failure.
Because in that moment, when she’d shouted her parents down for missing the party she’d thrown for herself, she had to face the fear that she wasn’t worthy of all she craved.
Face it. Live it. Accept it.
But it didn’t stop her from needing. And she’d been so sure that her neediness was wrong, shameful, because no one would ever want to meet it.
But now she was tired of it. So tired of feeling as if she was living behind a wall, with the walls of everyone around her standing between both of them. She was tired. Tired and alone, and she hated it. She wanted to be touched. She wanted to touch someone in return. She didn’t want nice; she didn’t want pleasant. She wanted real.
She stripped her jacket off, letting it fall to the floor, followed by her gold top, and her pants. As she made her way into the bathroom she rid herself of her undergarments, opened the door, stopping when she saw the broad expanse of Tarek’s naked back. He was standing beneath the hot spray, water droplets rolling down his skin.
And she was transfixed. Not just by the beautiful musculature she saw there, not just by his bronzed skin and the perfection of his butt.
It was the scars.
She had examined the front of him, his chest, his abs. Had touched him there. But she realized now she had never really looked at his back. He had been whipped. More than that, tortured. And it was written across that beautiful flesh, as bold as any pen stroke.
Olivia had never hated before. She did right now. Right now, she hated the man who would have been her brother-in-law. Hated him with a scorching fire that would never be satisfied.
He had done this. She knew he had.
She would kill him herself were he not already dead, and not lose any sleep over it.
She said nothing, approaching the shower and opening the solid glass door, stepping inside behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her head against his scarred body. “I’m sorry.”
She didn’t know if she was apologizing for the words they had exchanged outside or for the atrocities he had endured. Possibly both. Possibly for everything, even things she didn’t know about yet. Things she hadn’t done yet.
He was unique, this man. So special. And she had been petty. Of course he didn’t respond to things in any way she could anticipate. He was an entirely new creature to her. There was no past experience to call on to help her here.
He stiffened beneath her touch. But he didn’t pull away, and nor did he turn.
“I am very likely the one who should be sorry,” he said.
“I don’t know what to do with you.”
“If you are lost, I don’t know what hope the rest of us have.”
She smoothed her hands over his chest, the water making his skin slick. “What does that mean?”
“You always know what to do, Olivia.”
“Not right now. Right now, I’m just as lost as you are.”
He shifted then, turning and backing her against the wall, his erection hard against her hip, his dark gaze intense on hers. “I know what I want.”
“What?” she asked, her voice thin.
“You.”
“Have me.”
On a growl, he lowered his head, kissing her, harder than he had done out in the living area. This wasn’t a kiss filled with anger, but of desperation. Desperation that reflected her own. She smoothed her hands down over his back, the scar tissue beneath her hands obvious now. She had missed it the first night they’d made love. She’d had her hands on his shoulders as he’d thrust deep inside her, but she hadn’t realized what it meant. She did now. And she ached, not just with the need for him, but the need to heal him. The need to reach him. If she had to crack herself open wide, show him by example, she would. She would.
She reached down, grabbing hold of his thick arousal, shifting their positions and widening her stance, placing ahead of him the slick entrance to her body. “Please,” she whispered.
He flexed his hips, finding her center unerringly, moving deep within her.
Hot water rolled over them, his kisses raining down on her face to match each drop. Tarek was inside her. And she wasn’t alone. Wasn’t separate from him. She opened her eyes, meeting his dark, raw gaze. He saw her. She was not just a body, not simply a pleasant diversion, or a duty. He needed this; he needed her.