“What are you doing?” He leaned back until he was practically sitting on my hips, panting as he frowned at me.
Instead of explaining myself, I silently reached for my underwear, pressing my hands between his thighs as I pushed them down as far as I could. If I could just get him to the good stuff, we’d be in the clear. A guy couldn’t resist a chick with no underwear, right? He didn’t move a muscle above me, and I didn’t meet his eyes as I tilted my hips, trying in vain to push them off the rest of the way.
“Farrah, baby, talk to me.”
“I don’t want to take my shirt off.” I focused on his throat, unable to meet his eyes as I continued to tug at my underwear. All he had to do was shift just a little and I’d have them off . . .
His hand was gentle but firm as he tilted my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes as he mumbled, “What’s going on?”
“You don’t want to take it off. Trust me on this. Can we just drop it?” I asked in exasperation, my hands moving from my hips to the button on his jeans. Maybe if I could get to the goods underneath, he’d forget the shirt. He was as hard as a rock underneath, and I couldn’t help but get sidetracked, taking a small detour down the front of his zipper, causing him to suck in a harsh breath before he grabbed my wrists and pinned them above my head. Access denied.
“I do want to take it off,” he answered darkly. “I want those tits. I’ve been dying to see how much of them I can fit in my mouth.”
My jaw dropped in surprise, and I opened and closed it a few times before clenching it in frustration as I stared him down. He didn’t seem to be changing his mind, and I debated putting a kibosh on the whole thing, but only for a moment. I’d never been more turned on in my life, and the thought of walking away was inconceivable. I didn’t want to lose the chance of seeing him naked, especially because I had a feeling it would be a one-time deal.
“Fine,” I said with a huff, relaxing my body onto the bed as my stomach clenched hard with anxiety. He was going to do it—take off what little armor I was wearing—and he was going to regret it, but there was no changing his mind. There was a reason I’d stopped wearing bikinis, choosing instead to wear pinup-style one pieces. I tried to catalog my swimsuit collection in my head to focus on anything but where I was and what was about to happen, but it didn’t work. Once I’d given the okay, he released my wrists and swiftly pulled the shirt up and over my head.
I couldn’t watch. I didn’t want to see his reaction.
My eyes were shut tight and my hands in tight fists as his fingers traced lightly over my torso.
“Look at me,” he whispered urgently, his tone relaxing me enough to look into his eyes. “Ladybugs . . . and a daisy?”
I nodded once, my throat tight with tears as he moved from one tattoo to the next with soft touches.
A few years ago, I’d had an accident—at least, that was what Callie and I had told the skeptical doctors. The truth? My mother had watched while her repulsive boyfriend beat me bloody and then proceeded to burn me with his cigar. Thankfully, I’d gone in and out of consciousness during the ordeal, so I only had vague memories. The scars, however, were not as easily forgotten. There were eleven in all, mostly scattered across my ribs, with a few on my breasts and one low on my belly.
It must have been a pretty long cigar.
I never knew what spooked them, why they’d hauled ass out of the house and left me in the middle of the living room next to the broken coffee table. It didn’t matter. I was just thankful that after the last burn—the one right above my underwear line—he’d crawled off of me instead of pulling down my pants to inflict even more damage.
I lay there quietly while Cody ran his fingers over the small ladybug-covered scars peppering my body, and sobbed once in relief when he leaned down and swiped the daisy covering the scar two inches above my pubic bone with his tongue.
“Don’t ever hide from me again,” he murmured into my skin, his eyes meeting mine. “I’m all in, Farrah. There’s nothing about you that would turn me off, okay?”
“Okay.” I sniffled, nodding my head.
“Not sure how this is going to turn out,” he told me seriously, causing my body to still. “But I’ve been covered in your vomit, and I still want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. That has to mean something.”
“You just used the word vomit in a sentence and made it sound romantic,” I replied with a shy grin. “I guess that means I’m all in too.”
He wore a wide smile as he reached behind his neck with one hand, contorting his body to pull his shirt over his head and one arm, leaving it to dangle on his injured shoulder for a moment before he met my eyes and let it drop.
The scar from his bullet wound wasn’t as bad as I’d envisioned, about twice the size of one of mine, but the reality of why it was there had my stomach clenching. It was so close, too close to where his heart beat heavy with adrenalin and arousal. It could have turned out so much worse. I couldn’t stop the impulse that had me leaning up to caress the red skin lightly with my lips, and before I could pull away, I felt his hand tangle in the back of my hair to hold me in place.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured quietly into the top of my hair. “If I could get rid of it, I would. I know it brings up bad memories.”
I was startled by his comment, instantly remembering the day Echo was shot. Honestly, I hadn’t even been thinking about that horrible day; relief that Cody was safe and there with me overpowered any lingering memories of what had been the worst day of my life. I leaned my head against his chest, a mixture of guilt over my lack of reaction and relief that I hadn’t reacted warring inside me as I breathed him in. Relief won.