He stills suddenly, a guard shooting up around him like armor. Not until I feel a cool rush of air do I realize my shirt has gotten hiked clear up to my waist, exposing the naked lower half of my body.
My breath shortens. He rakes his gaze over me, quick but hot like a burn, and stops on the ladder of thick, raised scars marring my thigh.
Though my first instinct is to yank my shirt back over me, covering both my nudity and the evidence of my breakdown, I can’t move.
He stares at my scars. Tension compresses his mouth. His fingers twitch.
Before I can think, I grab his hand and bring it to my thigh. The first touch of his palm on my scars is both a shock and an aching, welcome comfort. He starts to pull away. I tighten my grip.
The air grows thick. His expression is shuttered, but his eyes still burn. Then he strokes his hand over my thigh. His pulse beats heavily under my fingertips. He begins to trace my scars slowly, sweeping his forefinger across each line from one end to the other. Like he’s trying to erase them.
And yet, he’s the only person who knows my scars will never go away, even if his touch could make them disappear.
A tremble starts deep inside me. He touches me with the same kind of slow reverence he has when he’s holding a camera—gentle and assured at the same time.
For the first time ever, I’m grateful for my scars. They give me an undeniable, physical connection to him, evidence of the pain we both still carry, proof of my conviction that we know each other on a cellular level.
He reaches the last scar and begins making his way back up the ladder. The scars all curve toward my inner thigh, the top one only a few inches from my vulva.
My nipples stiffen. I fight the urge to rub them. I could easily straighten the shirt, pushing it back down to cover my nudity. But I don’t want this intense pulse inside me to stop beating. I don’t want him to stop looking at me as if he’s never seen a woman before, as if I’m something miraculous.
He traces my scars halfway up my thigh and covers them with his palm. There’s an instant of stillness. I know in some deep, inviolable part of me that if he backs away now, he’ll never let himself cross the barrier between us again.
Before I lose courage, I grab the hem of my shirt and yank it over my head. Air brushes against my naked skin, sparking a rush of self-consciousness.
Darius’s breath hisses out, his whole body tensing, his eyes locked to my breasts. A flush rises to his face. Perspiration breaks out on his forehead.
Anxiety twists my belly. What does he think of me fully naked? I’m so ordinary—neither tall nor short, neither fat nor thin. I don’t have super long, shapely legs or a flat belly or anything remarkable at all. I run a shaking hand over my breasts.
“I…I want to know what it feels like to be touched by you.” I lick my dry lips, unable to stop the heat of embarrassment. I can’t hide how inexperienced I am and how little I know. I can’t pretend to be something I’m not. Especially with him.
“Nell—”
“Don’t say my name like that.”
He drags his gaze to mine, and the depth of need reflected in his eyes takes my breath away. “Like what?”
“Like you’re a parent or a teacher.”
A reluctant smile tugs at his mouth. “I am a teacher. Your teacher. Yet another reason this is so fucking wrong.”
“Can you stop saying that?” Pressure collects behind my eyes, and I’m afraid I might start crying again. “I don’t want you to think I’m wrong.”
“Nell, you’re not wrong.” He slips his hand beneath my chin, lifting my face. “You’re so right you’re perfect. Which is why you shouldn’t want to be touched by someone like me.”
“And stop saying things like that too.” I swipe at my eyes, frustrated by how hard it is to convey everything I want, everything I need. Upset that he refuses to understand why I want so badly to do these things with him alone. “I’m not asking you to have sex with me. I just want you to touch me.”
I sense the hard battle in him right before he pulls me closer, his body lined with both urgency and self-restraint. For an instant, I regret putting him in a position where he has to fight himself, but then he brings his hand up to touch my breast, and my body goes up in flames.
Despite the force of his anger and energy, it’s barely a touch, a light graze of his fingers across my nipple, but the fire bursting through my veins is like a molten flow of lava. He spreads his hand out and cups my breast. I swallow hard, staring at his tanned fingers moving across my pale flesh, caressing and squeezing.
His breath stirs the strands of hair at my temple. I ease slowly back against the pillows, into the cradle of his arm. Even with such heat coursing through me, I’m still goose-bumpy with nervousness.
Because I’m naked and Darius is touching me.
“You are incredibly beautiful.” He rolls my nipples between his fingers, sending a shock of arousal to my core. “And responsive as all hell.” He brushes his lips across my cheek. “Electric.”
Electric.
I watch in fascination as he palms my breasts, which almost overflow his large hands. My nipples practically quiver every time he rubs them, and I bite my lip to suppress a moan. He slides his fingers into the soft crevices beneath my breasts, then lower, trailing over my abdomen and circling my belly button.
I flinch a little and laugh. “Sorry. Ticklish.”
He murmurs something deep in his throat. His sandpapery jaw scrapes deliciously against my cheek. His scent grows stronger, like the tension and heat rolling between us is intensifying it. The aroma of foreign, decadent things like smoky harems and spiced tea. And him, the salt of his skin, his sweat, his essence that has always been so familiar and comforting to me.
He dips his forefinger into my belly button, then strokes lower over the curve of my belly to the top of my vulva. My heart is pounding so hard I hear it inside my head.
Need burns through me, a haze of lustful urgency, but part of my mind still can’t believe this is happening, that this is me, lying here so blatantly exposed with Darius touching my naked body…when I haven’t even kissed a boy yet.
He shifts position, his breath increasing. His muscles are like pliable stone against my side, his chest hot and damp. His palpable restraint is both exciting and frustrating—I like knowing I’m turning him on, but I also know he won’t do anything to me that’s even close to what he’d detailed so vividly earlier.
No matter how much I might want him to.
He slides his hand lower, edging his fingers between my trembling thighs. And then…oh my god. He touches me there, in the most private and intimate of places.
I gasp, instinctively closing my legs even as a burn sweeps over me from head to toe. He pulls his hand away immediately.
“Don’t stop.” Dragging in a breath, I grab his hand and guide it back between my legs. “I want this. I’m just nervous. No one’s ever touched me there before.”
No one’s ever touched me anywhere before.
He hesitates, the battle firing in him again.
“What do you need to hear?” I whisper. “You have my full consent. I want you to touch me. I’m willing and ready. Yes. Yes, please.”
I push his hand in farther and spread my legs, wincing a little. I’m already so wet it’s embarrassing, but I will not let Darius second-guess or regret anything about what he’s doing to me. What I begged him to do.