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My fingers traced the edges of the tape, double-checking the tightness, and then lower.
I felt him tense beneath my touch as I ran my fingertips over the patterns of ink, over his strong abdomen, and then I paused at some puckered flesh now invisible due to the ink. Some old scar.
His hand tightened around my wrist, stopping me from moving.
I flicked my gaze up to his, my heart breaking at the fear in his eyes, the shame.
“Cannon—”
“Don’t,” he said, his normal response, and one I would respect. I didn’t try to move or break his grasp, but he didn’t push me away either. I took that as a small crack in the door Cannon kept parts of himself locked inside.
“This doesn’t scare me,” I whispered, my hand still in his brushing against the scar. “You know it doesn’t.”
He sighed, his muscles relaxing underneath my touch, his grip loosening enough that my hand fell.
“You’re beautiful,” I said, running my fingers freely over his body, catching on all the hard pieces of old scars. “Every.” I kissed one scar. “Single.” Then another. “Inch.”
“Persephone.” My name was a broken whisper.
I tucked my fingers into his athletic pants, tugging them free of his feet and tossing them behind me. Leaving him in nothing but his boxer-briefs.
“Let me in,” I said. “Please, let me help heal you.” He knew I meant so much more than the cut I’d just tended to.
I continued my exploration of his skin, stopping on a four-inch-long piece of hardened skin, my gaze on his, questioning, open. Just like we’d done that day in the shower. All he had to do was make the choice to walk through the door and come to me.
“Razorblade,” he said, his voice rough. “Dad had come home drunk. Lillian had left her toy car—my old one—near the dining room table.” He shrugged. “She was three.”
I swallowed hard, that would only make him four.
I kissed that scar and moved on to another.
“Broken arm,” he said. “Thrown down the stairs.”
Tears burned the backs of my eyes, but I kissed that one and moved to the next, a peppering of raised slashes.
“Kitchen knife,” he explained. “To prevent Mom from ever trying to leave again.”
I kissed each one, tasting salt from the warm tears I couldn’t hold back that splashed upon his skin. He’d told me before about the stove burner and the cigarette burns…but, God, there were so many stories here. So many dark pieces of his past.
Over and over again, I worshiped his body, kissing and caressing those broken pieces of himself hidden beneath the ink, giving those jagged edges more time and care. Silently listening to his story, my heart shattering with each reason behind every scar.
And after what felt like an eternity, a slow-torturous journey through Cannon’s dark past, I kissed my way up to his lips and cradled his face in my hands.
“I see you, Cannon,” I said, not bothering to wipe the tears from my eyes. “And you’re not only the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen but the best man I’ve ever known.”
Something dark and broken shuttered in his eyes before he clenched them shut and pressed his forehead against mine. His arms came around my back, clutching me to him, holding me as he trembled, as those raw, exposed moments from his past lay open and bare between us. And I clung to him, held him silently, pouring every ounce of light and love I had into him until I couldn’t take the small distance one second longer. Until I knew I needed to give him something else entirely.
My heart.
My soul.
I fingered his hair, gripping the strands a bit tighter and tugging until his face was level with mine. I held his dark gaze for a few heartbeats before gently kissing him. He opened for me, and I claimed his mouth, giving and taking and relishing in the taste of him. His hands clenched on my hips as he hefted me up to straddle his lap without breaking our kiss. But I didn’t stay there for long—no, we’d had passionate, wild sex in many places in this house. Now wasn’t the time for that.
I stepped off of him and reached for his hand. He looked up at me questioningly but took my hand. I led him out of the bathroom and to the bed where I gently nudged him until he lay on his back. Slowly, I peeled off my clothes, and his remaining underwear until we were bare before each other. My blood thrumming and thrashing, begging me to go hard and fast with this man. Just like he liked, how I liked. But I hushed the consuming need. Tonight was about Cannon, about him letting me in.
Tonight, he needed to learn what it felt like to be worshipped.
To be adored.
