Page 101 of Knot Like Other Girls

"I want to," I admit, the words dragged from somewhere deep inside me. "But I don't... I haven't... since..." I gesture vaguely at my face.

Understanding dawns in her eyes. "Oh," she breathes. Then, with a gentleness that threatens to shatter me, "We can go slow."

Slow. As if time could somehow make this easier. As if anything could prepare her for how it would feel for my scarred lips to press against hers.

But she's looking at me with such open trust, such quiet certainty, that I find myself nodding.

"Okay," I whisper. "Slow."

She smiles, and it's like watching the sun break through clouds. Warm and bright and so beautiful it hurts to look at directly. Slowly, telegraphing her movements, she rises onto her tiptoes and places her hands on my shoulders for balance.

I remain frozen, barely breathing as she leans in. Her eyes hold mine until the last moment, then flutter closed as her lips brush against mine in the lightest of touches.

It's barely a kiss—more a whisper of contact—but it sends electricity racing down my spine. Her lips are soft, warm, and they press against mine without hesitation or disgust. I stay perfectly still, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid to do anything that might break this impossible moment.

She pulls back slightly, her eyes opening to search mine. "Okay?" she asks softly.

I nod, not trusting my voice. It's more than okay. It's miraculous. Terrifying. Overwhelming.

The restraint I've held onto so tightly begins to slip. My hand slides from her cheek to the back of her neck, pulling her closer as I lean down to capture her lips again. This kiss is different—deeper, more insistent. I back her up a few steps until she meets the wall, my body instinctively moving to cage hers.

A small sound escapes her, a mix of surprise and pleasure. Her hands tighten on my shoulders, then slide up to tangle in my hair. She tugs gently, pulling me closer, meeting my intensity with her own.

I break away, breathing hard, worried I've gone too far. "Sorry," I begin, but she shakes her head.

"Don't apologize," she says, her pupils dilated with desire. "I like this. I like seeing you... not holding back so much."

The words loosen something in my chest. I lean down, my forehead resting against hers. "I don't want to scare you."

"You don't," she assures me, her hands moving to frame my face—both sides, scarred and whole alike. "You make me feel safe and wanted. That's... new for me."

I turn my head slightly to press a kiss to her palm. "You have no idea what you do to me," I admit, my voice rougher than usual.

Her scent spikes with fresh arousal. "Show me," she challenges softly.

The invitation is all I need. I lift her, my hands firm on her waist, and she wraps her legs around me instinctively. The position brings her core against my hardening length, and we both groan at the contact.

I carry her to the bed, never breaking our gaze. Her arms wind around my neck, holding on as if she's afraid I might disappear. I lay her down gently on the mattress, following her down but catching my weight on my forearms.

"You're beautiful," I murmur, the words escaping before I can stop them.

A blush spreads across her cheeks. "So are you," she replies.

I shake my head, unable to process her words, unable to believe them. Instead, I lower my head to kiss her again, losing myself in the one truth I can accept—that for whatever reason, she wants me right now.

My lips trail from her mouth to her jaw, then down the column of her throat. She tilts her head back, offering more access. I nuzzle the spot where her neck meets her shoulder, breathing in her scent directly from the source.

"Cole," she sighs, her hands running through my hair, down my back, everywhere she can reach.

I growl against her skin, nipping gently at her pulse point. She gasps, her body arching beneath mine. The reaction emboldens me, and I suck at the spot, leaving a mark. Not amating bite—I would never do that without explicit consent—but a claim nonetheless.

Her hands tug at my shirt, slipping beneath the hem to touch bare skin. I freeze momentarily. My torso bears scars too, though not as severe as my face and arm. But her touch is gentle, exploratory rather than wary.

"Can I see you?" she asks softly.

I hesitate, then nod once, sharply. How many times have people flinched away from this sight, grimacing when they thought I wasn't looking? I pull my shirt over my head in one fluid motion, exposing myself to her gaze, bracing for the inevitable moment when desire turns to clinical interest or worse. Pity.

The scars on my right side continue down from my neck, covering my shoulder and part of my chest and back. The skin is mottled and uneven, a patchwork of grafts and scar tissue. Not as bad as my face, but still hard to look at.

---