Page 116 of The Devil's Scars

“Short answer –”

“Fuck yes?”

He laughed, and she giggled back, feeling like she knew him again. “Yes, fuck yes. Long answer: I’m worried about you.”

“Me?” Zoe stared at him, astonished. “Me? Scars, come on! I’m terrified of hurting you, like leaning on you wrong, or scratching your back, or putting pressure on your legs in some weird way. I’m worried about you straining or, I don’t know, ripping something in your back. But I think that’s all natural to be worried about, considering the extent of your damage. What on earth have you got to be worried about?”

“That you won’t…” He closed his eyes, shook his head, dug deep. He looked at her again now, ready to be honest with the woman that gave his life meaning, and a center, and a home. “That you won’t find me as attractive as you used to.”

“Holy Lord,” she sputtered. “You have got to be kidding me. Are we back here?”

“Yeah. We are. But not in the way that you might be thinking.” He sighed. “I’ve put you through hell these past few months, Zoe, just like I said I would, that day in the hospital that I first woke up. I promised you that I’d be a miserable, grumpy, glowering, irritable bastard, and that I’d be withdrawn and I’d shut you out sometimes. I promised that I’d be hard to live with, and a real, all-around pain in the ass – and I’ve come through.”

“You really have,” she agreed. “But then again, you are a man of your word.”

He cracked a grin at that. “You getting snarky and sassy with me?”

“You bet.”

“I know you’ve stood by me through it all,” he said quietly. “And what I need to ask you is this: have you done that out of a sense of duty, because you made me a promise, and you couldn’t just walk away and leave me here alone to cope? Or have you done it because – despite my being a miserable bastard who didn’t talk to you for days on end sometimes – you still love me, and want me? If you’ve done this all to keep your word, I love and respect you for it… and I’m letting you know that if that’s the case, you’re now free to go.”

She froze. “What?”

“Today, the doctor gave me the all-clear to go back to Denver, if I want. I’ll need to carry on with my physio for another two months, but I can do that back there. Sam already said that he’d arrange it.”

“So… so we can go home? We can be back home with family and friends for Christmas?”

“We can go any time we want, baby. But I need to hear you say it – you need to tell me that you’re still sitting here with me because you want me and need me. You’re not still here because of duty, not because you’re the most amazing person I’ve ever known, not because you wanted to see this through to the end, however it was going to end up. You’re here because you love me. Because you want a life with me, the man that I am now. You want long-term and long-haul, and mess and stress, and wild and gentle. You want everything, and you want it with just me.”

Her answer was a kiss. Her answer was always a kiss, he’d come to understand, and it was one more reason that he loved her the way that he did.

“Three minutes,” he whispered against her perfect pink lips, and he hardened as he imagined another set of perfect pink lips on his woman. “You know how I want you.”

She shuddered as memory washed over her skin, memory from that night at Satan’s, when Scars had ordered her to the back room to strip, ordered her to hold position no matter what.

That had been their last night making love together, though they’d had no idea of that at the time.

“I know how you want me,” she said, already feeling seconds from coming. “I remember.”

“Then off you go, baby,” he said, tugging her to her feet, giving her a little tap on the ass for good measure. “Your three minutes start now. Go.”

Zoe stumbled through the living room and down the hallway, already unbuttoning and unzipping as she went. She paused briefly, checked on Keira in her crib. The baby was sleeping peacefully, beautifully, and as she always did now, as she was sure she always would, Zoe silently thanked God that she still had a daughter.

She thanked God, and she thanked Scars.

With a sense of time passing, she hurried to the bedroom now, flung open the dresser drawer, frantically sifting through all her worn cotton panties and Mom bras… and there they were, as stunning and sexy as she remembered them. She ripped off her white underwear with the saggy elastic waistband, flung her graying bra under the bed, and stepped into the silk and lace. It felt cool and smooth against her skin, and she shivered as memory slipped its hands over her body once more.

She didn’t have time to fix her face or hair, but she knew that she’d be a tousled, tangled mess after he was done with her, anyway. Burns, skin grafts, soreness – none of this was going to stop Scars Innis from ravishing her. Devouring her. Leaving her used and gasping on the floor. Satisfied, yet still aching for more, her makeup running off her eyes and mouth in sweat and streaks, her hair wild and tumbling over her face.

Zoe hit the floor beside the bed, went on all fours. She adjusted the rug under her knees – she knew that she’d have bruises tomorrow, no matter what, but a cushion never hurt – and placed her palms flat on the floor in front of her. She arched her back, extended her neck, closed her eyes.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

She’d just finished her little mantra when she heard his footsteps approaching. She bit her full lip, trying to quiet her excitement, but she knew that her body was going to give her away, anyway. The second he dipped a finger inside her, he was going to find nothingbut arousal and readiness.

The footsteps stopped, and she knew that he was standing in the doorway looking at her. He was standing very still, barely breathing, and she longed to open her eyes and just take a peek at him. But she didn’t – she knew that he’d leave her there, maybe for an hour, waiting. So she screwed her eyes shut tighter, and prayed that he didn’t stand there much longer, gazing at her.

Footsteps again now, moving into the room. She heard him shut the door, and she tensed. Oh, God, oh, God… it had been too long. She was so ready for him, but the man was a master of patience when he wanted to be. If she moved a muscle, or a baby finger, or made the slightest sound, Scars was capable of self-control and -denial, just to make his point.

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