I wanted to touch him more too. The sight of his bare chest fascinated me. Bullet scars aside, I’ve never seen a body like his—all hard, sloped muscles and ridges with a trail of hair leading down into the waistband of his trousers.
And what was under there?
Heat rises to my throat as I climb out of bed. After using the bathroom, I splash water on my face and return to my bedroom. Catching a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror, I unbutton my cotton pajama top and toss it aside.
Anxiety flickers. I never look at myself naked. Why bother?
But for some reason, I edge closer to the mirror and stare at my bare breasts. They’re not big, but they’re full and round with large pink nipples. I guess they’re okay, as far as breasts go. I don’t dislike them, at least.
Hesitating, I edge my pants down and kick them off. My belly tenses. Though I rarely pay attention to my body aside from personal hygiene, now I force myself to stare at my nakedness.
I’m not svelte and willowy like my mother had been, but I’m probably more normal than she was. Though my breasts are decent, I don’t like the wideness of my hips or the padding of flesh on my belly. But my legs are well shaped, even if they’re on the short side, and my waist curves in nicely. The scars on my thigh don’t seem as ugly as they have in the past.
I certainly hadn’t considered Darius’s scars to be ugly. Rather, they’re beautiful evidence of his strength and ability to survive.
What would he think of me naked?
The thought pops unexpectedly into my head, eliciting a little shiver of both excitement and shame. Though my fantasies about him have gotten increasingly steamy, they’re still just that: fantasies. I’ve always lived with a heavy, distinct boundary between my imagination and reality. This situation is no different.
Well. It can’t be different, even if part of me is starting to wonder what it would be like if it were.
I dress before heading downstairs. Darius isn’t in the kitchen. What if he’s trying to avoid me and left for school early?
He didn’t make coffee either, which is a first. I get a pot brewing and pour my cereal and milk. I knock on my father’s office door to let him know the coffee will be ready in a few minutes, then I return to sit at the kitchen table.
I’m working out the cereal box word games in my head when the door opens, and Darius enters.
My breath sticks in my throat. In track pants and a T-shirt molded to his muscular chest and shoulders, his breath hard and hair wind-rumpled, he’s all sweaty, powerful man. Energy radiates from him in waves, and I can practically see his blood throbbing with exertion.
“Morning.” He fills a glass with water and tilts his head back to drink.
I can’t help staring at the movement of his throat muscles as he gulps down the water. After he lowers the glass, he scrubs his mouth with the back of his hand, then lifts the hem of his T-shirt to wipe trickles of sweat from his forehead.
His abdomen is so beautiful—that tempting line of hair leading down into his pants, and his tanned skin pulled tightly over those ladder-like ridges. I experience a sudden urge to taste his taut, salty skin.
He glances up, as if wondering why I haven’t responded to his greeting. Jerking my gaze away from him, I spoon up another bite of corn flakes.
“Hello,” I mumble around the mouthful. “I didn’t think you ran on Tuesdays.”
“Just felt like it.” He sets the glass down. He’s usually relaxed and loose after a run, but now a distinct tension winds through him.
Because of last night?
Though we might have been skirting the edge of inappropriate, neither one of us did or said anything wrong. Just the opposite. It felt so good to open myself up to him, knowing he wouldn’t judge anything I said or did. Knowing he would understand.
My heart suddenly constricts at the idea that he’d think otherwise.
I stand and take my bowl to the sink. I catch his scent—clean sweat, exertion, wind.
He starts toward the door. “I’ll be ready in half an hour.”
“Don’t you want coffee or breakfast?”
“I’ll get something later.” He leaves, and his footsteps are heavy on the stairs.
On the way to school, he’s silent and tense. I know exactly what his problem is, and I don’t like it.
When he pulls into a parking space and starts to get out of the car, I grab his arm. His muscles flex under my palm, tense and hard.
“I’m sorry.” My breath sticks in my throat. “If what I did last night made you uncomfortable.”
Tension lines his features. “It wasn’t you, Nell. I shouldn’t have done what I did.”
I swallow hard. “You mean touch me?”
“Yes.” He pulls his arm from my grip. “And let you touch me. It wasn’t right.”
“It felt right to me.”
He pushes the door open, his mouth thinning. “There is nothing right about touching a girl over two decades younger than me.”
I clench my jaw. “Excuse me, but I’m not just any girl.”
“I know.” He gets out of the car. “That makes it even worse.”
The door slams. Hot tears spring to my eyes. My lingering pleasure over our encounter dissolves. For him, touching me isn’t just “not right.” It’s worse.
Blinking hard, I pick up my book bag and hurry away from him. I put my books in my locker and head to homeroom. Darius is talking to Ms. Meadows, who as usual looks pretty and hippie-ish in a printed cotton skirt and peasant blouse. I can’t help glancing over her slender body and wondering what she looks like under her clothes.
How many women has Darius been with since his escape? Does he have a “type”?
“Hey ho.” Simon leaps into place beside me at the table, his youthful energy a stark contrast to Darius’s self-possession. “Did you hear about the party at Todd Welford’s on Saturday night? Everyone’s going. His parents will be out of town. Should be fun.”
“That might depend on your definition of fun.” I open my notebook.
“Well, you won’t know until you try, right?” He gives me an engaging grin. “Clover doesn’t think she can go, but do you want to?”
My stomach tightens. I should say yes. Of course I should. I’m eighteen years old, and I don’t even socialize. I’ve never been to a party. I’ve never been on a date. I’ve never been kissed. I don’t want to kiss Simon—and obviously he’s into Clover anyway—but he’s the first person in school whom I’ve been able to call a friend in a very long time. Maybe that’s enough to get me out into the world a little more.
“Did you get my note about Clover’s photo shoot?” I ask instead of answering. “Saturday afternoon. She’s meeting us at the park.”
“Yeah, she texted me. She’s going to be an awesome subject.” He raises his eyebrows. “So what about Saturday night?”
I’m saved from responding when Ms. Meadows calls the class to order and begins to take attendance. As I turn my attention to the front of the room, I catch Darius watching me.
No—he was watching me talk to Simon. His gaze is hooded, his mouth in a straight line, his expression implacable.
A surge goes through my chest. A second passes before I realize what the emotion is. It’s something I haven’t felt in…well, ever.