Noah watched every movement.
His gaze was not shy. Hunger showed in his gaze, along with curiosity and a fine thread of apprehension that neither of us tried to deny.
I stood before him without covering myself.
He reached out and touched me lightly. One slow pass of his hand sent heat through my body.
“You’re already hard.”
“You led me into a bedroom and began issuing instructions.”
“This could be clinical.”
“You are failing to create that impression.”
His smile came more easily.
Then he looked down at his own clothes.
“Your turn?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I began with his shirt.
His left shoulder had improved, but sudden rotation still caused pain. I opened the buttons one at a time rather than pulling the garment over his head. After each one, I kissed the newly exposed skin.
His breath changed when my mouth touched the scar near his collarbone.
“Color?”
“Green.”
I kissed it again.
Then the pale line beneath his ribs.
The incision had healed cleanly, but I could still remember the surgeon explaining what they had removed, what they had repaired, what they were still uncertain he would survive.
His stomach tightened beneath my lips.
“You don’t have to kiss all of them,” Noah said.
“I know.”
“Then why do you?”
I raised my head.
“They’re part of you.”
“That sounds prepared.”
“It isn’t.”
He watched me.
For once, I did not soften the truth before giving it to him.
