Page 38 of Beautiful Scar

Dasha

Iget changed at least ten times.

First, I try something normal. Just a shirt and a pair of jeans. But it seems too casual, so I put on a skirt. But the skirt’s too long, down below my knees, and makes me look frumpy. I change the top to something slightly more revealing, but that only makes me feel uncomfortable.

I try my cutest underwear, except that feels desperate.

What the hell’s a girl supposed to wear when she loses her virginity?

Probably nothing. That’s sort of the point.

Eventually, I settle on a pair of slim-fitting sweats, a long-sleeve thermal shirt, no bra, and lacy black undies.

This is a business arrangement, right?

No reason to put on airs. Just somefuck mepanties and easily removed comfies.

I do my hair and makeup anyway. It makes me feel stronger and more in control when my scar’s hidden away. He’s going to notice that I put in some effort, but I can’t let his opinion change anything.

He’s the bleak nihilist, but not me.

I still believe in things. Like my first time should be special.

Or at least as special as this little handshake deal can be.

I’m a nervous wreck. I’ve barely eaten all day. I keep thinking about Tigran last night sitting on that couch talking about how the world’s ugly and brutal. He does that evil monster routine, but whenever it’s just him and me, there are flashes of something more.

The way he held my hand on the plane.

How he reacted instantly to danger by covering my body with his own.

He’s protective and kind, and it’s like he tries hard to suppress that part of him.

When it’s time, I stand in the hallway and stare at the door.

I don’t have to open it. Maybe I can put this off for another night. We could get to know each other and connect on a deeper level before he comes in here and viciously fucks me.

Because that’s what it’ll be like, right?

I’m terrified. Honestly, no matter how much I’ve read about sex and watched filthy videos online, none of it prepared me for this.

Actually sleeping with a man like Tigran.

It’s going to hurt, and I don’t think he’s going to have much sympathy.

My stomach’s a wreck. I feel the edge of a panic attack. I’m barely holding on and very close to bailing on this whole stinking plan.

Except if I don’t do it, then it’ll never happen.

I know myself. If I don’t open that door, if I give myself an excuse to back out, I’ll never find the courage.

Crap. Crap, crap, crap. I hate this so much. I almost wish he’d just come in here andtakeme.

I turn the handle and yank it open before I can convince myself to run away.

Nothing happens. I don’t know what I was expecting. I mean, it’s only a door, right?

I back away and leave it open a crack.

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