She stands so abruptly the water sloshes over the side and splashes my clothes.
“Then have a look.” She throws her arms out at her sides. The rash, scalier now, before contained to just a few patches on her forearms, has spread to her biceps, and sprinkled across her belly, the tops of her thighs, and a few patches on her calves. She turns so I can see it all over her back and along her nape.
“And while we’re at it,” she says, her voice breaking, “you may as well see this.”
She snatches off the headscarf, and though her hair is neatly braided, there are large areas where chunks of it are missing. I see it. I see the discolored patches on her arms, legs, stomach. I see the spots where there is no hair. I note the rash on her face that the makeup hid. I know what she thinks I see, but all I really see is light. The same light that shone blindingly bright that first night on a Broadway stage, it’s still there. If anything, this fight she’s in, what it requires of her, is the filament to make her shine even brighter.
“Why do you think I’m here?” I ask harshly, standing, stepping so close my shirt turns wet against her bare breasts.
She drops her head, shaking it, closing her eyes. Shutting me out.
I lift her chin, force her to meet my gaze. “You don’t know?”
“I don’t want you to stay out of obligation, or because it’s the noble thing to do, or because you can’t figure out how to walk away from the sick girl without looking like an asshole.”
I rear back, shocked that she would be that misguided. Here I am, literally about to come in my pants at the sight of her naked, and she thinks I don’t want her? That I’m here out of misplaced guilt? That I’m making a fool of myself to get a glimpse of a leg, a breast, anything to be noble?
I grab her hand and press it to my cock, rigid and swollen behind my zipper.
“Is that noble?” I snarl, pressing my nose to hers. “Does that feel like guilt to you?”
She squeezes and I flinch, it feels so good, lowering my head until our temples kiss. I reach blindly between us, finding the juncture of her thighs and sliding two fingers over her seam between the lips, caressing her slick clit in a rubbing rhythm, holding my breath so it’s quiet enough for me to hear how wet she sounds—to hear her breath hitch.
“Oh,” I whisper into her hair, sliding two fingers inside the hot, tight channel that clenches and contracts. “I see you’re feeling guilty, too.”
Her breasts heave, lids lowering over the smoky passion in her eyes. I pull back far enough to catch and hold her gaze.
“Do you want me?” I ask, searching her face for the truth.
She grinds her hips against my hand and nods, her eyes drifting closed.
“And did you ask Dr. Okafor if we can?” I press.
She licks her lips and doesn’t respond.
“You did, didn’t you? Because I can feel how bad you want this dick so I know you asked. And what did she say?”
“She said . . .” She moans when I hook my fingers inside, finding that spot that always sets her off. “She said as long as I feel up to it.”
“And do you feel up to it?” I ask seriously, because I could be as horny as a mustang in heat and I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her.
Instead of answering with words, she tips up on her toes, grabs my jaw, pulls my mouth open, and dives in, commanding the kiss. It feels like I’ve been holding my breath since I last had this. I go deeper, exploring the hot, sweet interior of her mouth. Our heads bob as we try to get more of each other. Teeth colliding, tongues slipping and slurping. It’s a wet, hot, heart-racing mess, and I’ve missed it. Missed her so damn much. Skimming my hands down the wet satin of her back, I dip to slide my arms beneath her ass, and my hands are full of naked woman. I lift her from the tub and she wraps her legs around my waist, dampening my shirt and jeans. I rush to the bed and lay her down gently, staring at her for a few seconds. Self-consciousness spreads over her in the hand she reaches for her hair, and the way she crosses one leg over the other, trying to hide the lesions.
“Don’t,” I tell her, the one word ragged on my lips. “Don’t you dare think I see you as any less beautiful than I ever have or that I want you less.”
“Canon.” She closes her eyes. “If I thought you stayed out of guilt or—”
“I can’t leave because there’s nowhere else to go. So it won’t do you any good to drive me away, though I can see you tried tonight.”
“Not very effectively,” she says, looking at me with a teary smile.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
I traverse her thigh, knee, calf with the back of my hand, tracing the dry places on her skin with the same reverence I do the smooth. I take her foot, kissing the arch. When my breath dusts the sensitive sole, her toes twitch.
“It tickles,” she says, her laugh husky. Our gazes catch and cling, amusement evaporating like steam the longer we stare at one another. Looking into her eyes, the glass becomes clear again, the frost swiped completely until I see all her emotions. The desire, the fear, the self-consciousness.
The love.