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“Let me touch you,” she softly said.
What?
My mind started to race as my stomach danced, the walls brushed with wings of butterflies in anticipation. She wanted to touch me.
Her eyes drifted slowly across my face and then down my chest. “I want to touch you,” she whispered.
I blinked, my heart pounding in my chest. “Touch me?” I breathlessly replied, unable to think.
“Yes.” Her voice quivered. She took a deep breath. “The scars.” She pointed to my torso.
I stiffened, and furrowed my brows, taken aback by that request. “Why?” I whispered. This was definitely not the direction I’d thought it was going.
She shook her head, softly. “It’s going to sound dumb.” The air around us was still, the vulnerability that shifted between us was different than I had expected it to become. And I was okay with it. I wanted her to be comfortable expressing all of her desires and thoughts, no matter what they were. She wrung her hands together, looking at anything but my eyes.
“Tell me,” I requested, gently but firmly.
Her green eyes slid up to mine, wide and frightened. “I-I-I liked how it felt when you told me what happened and let me touch them. It felt like… like it was something that you’d only ever shared with me.” Her gaze fluttered away from mine, snapping down into her lap. “I mean, even if you’ve let others touch them before and stuff, I just…” Her voice trailed off.
“Only you,” I whispered in reply, and she looked up through her lashes.
Her brows raised, misting over with tears.
I gave her a tender smile. “Only you, darling.”
She stared at me, her eyes locked onto my soul. And I bore everything I could. Every part of me was open to her, her, to have and keep. And if that’s what she wanted, then okay. Her reasoning didn’t sound dumb to me, she wanted another moment in a memory that was bound between us. One that was only ours.
Slowly, she stretched forward a trembling hand. Fingers brushed against the hem of my shirt.
She hesitated.
I gave her a single nod, permission. Wrapping her hands around the shirt, she gripped the edge of the fabric and lifted.
Except I was sitting on the back of it, without knowing.
Her fingers ripped off of the end of the fabric.
And a fist slammed directly into my nose.
She gasped, immediately letting go. “Weston, oh my gosh. I’m so sorry,” she quietly muttered, her cheeks turning red.
I placed my hand against the now aching wound, trying not to laugh. “It’s okay.” I muttered. That was definitely not what I’d been expecting.
Warm liquid slid down my face.
“It’s bleeding. I made your nose bleed. Oh my gosh. I punched my boyfriend,” she muttered, her hands hiding her mouth.
I chuckled and sat forward a little, tugging the back of my shirt out from underneath my butt with one free hand. Pinching the bridge of my nose with the other, I began to wiggle the shirt up my body.
“Well, you still get to see me with my shirt off,” I teased. My voice sounded funny, nasally from the blood I was trying to keep from hitting my sheets.
“Let me help,” she quickly gushed. If she got off my lap, that would help. But instead, she pushed my hands away from the shirt and tugged it over my head. Placing it beneath my nose to sop up the warm, sticky mess, I held it in place as she snapped her hands away.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, and I peered at her over the top of the shirt.
“I know how you can properly apologize,” I teased, wiggling my brows.
She tipped her head suspiciously. “How?”
