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When his lips reluctantly pull free, he presses his forehead against mine and breathes me in.
“Stay.”
“I had no plans on leaving. You told me earlier that your ideal woman would kick your ass if you fucked up. This is me kicking your ass. It probably needs a little work,” I admit.
He laughs before walking me over to the bed and laying me down, pulling free as he does so.
“Shit. I forgot a condom. Let me get a cloth to clean you up.”
He dips into my bathroom and returns with a damp washcloth, and spreads my legs wide.
“I’m on birth control and get tested regularly,” I reassure him as he cleans me gently. I feel like I should be embarrassed or offer to do it myself, but I can’t remember ever having someone take care of me on this level before, and it’s nice. It makes me feel oddly cherished.
“Me too. I mean, I get tested regularly. I’m not on birth control.” He shakes his head and tosses the washcloth into the laundry basket.
“Good.” I run my finger over his cheek, feeling a faint scar running around his hairline. I feel him tense, but I don’t ask questions. Scars are personal. They reveal the best and worst times of our lives. We’re too new for him to trust me with the burdens he carries and the secrets that cause the shadows in his eyes.
“Lie down with me?” I whisper.
He rolls us over so he can snag the blanket from beneath us and pull it over us. I lay my head on his chest and run my fingers over his stomach, where I can feel other faint marks that I missed, thanks to the dark. I don’t dwell on them when I feel him tense again. I just keep my fingers moving over all the skin I can feel until his body relaxes under mine and his breathing evens out. I don’t relax, though, and sleep evades me for the longest time. I can’t stop my mind from thinking about those scars on his stomach. I don’t need to ask him about them. I know exactly what kind of scars they are since I have two myself, on my upper left shoulder.
There is nothing on earth that leaves a scar quite like a burning cigarette.
