Page 56 of All Her Broken Pieces

The stretch marks that plague my hips and belly.

The cellulite that pocks my thighs and ass.

The errant hair that I inevitably missed while shaving.

I’ve never been insecure about my body, but it’s hard not to be when someone is inches away from it, examining the most intimate parts with laser focus.

Shifting on my legs, I rub my thighs together and drop my hands from his shoulders, unable to bear the weight of his gaze any longer. “Please stop looking at me like that. I can feel your eyes hovering over every imperfection. My body has been through a lot over the years, more so in the past week, and I?—”

“Your body is a fucking work of art.” His eyes darken, and a look of hunger crosses his features as he speaks. “Every mark on this beautiful skin tells me more about who you are and the life you’ve lived. There isn’t an inch of you that I’d change. There isn’t an inch of you that I don’t want to put my mouth on. What you see as imperfections, I see as an autobiography of your life. Each mark a word on the page of who you are. Together, they tell a story. Without them, that story wouldn’t be as interesting, nor would it be complete. And when you’re healed, I can’t wait to leave my own marks on you. I’m not here for just a chapter, Bridget. I want to fucking own the rest of your story.”

He holds out my panties so I can step into them and then shimmies them up my legs. The silky sleep shorts are next, and he makes quick work of helping me into them as well. That was a hell of a lot easier than doing it on my own.

After I’m dressed, he guides me to the bathroom so I can brush my teeth, holding back my hair for me as I spit in the sink. I’m starting to crave the feel of his hands on me, the little ways he touches me.

I follow him back into the bedroom, holding his hand as I trail behind him. “Stay with me tonight.”

He turns and looks at me over his shoulder, his brown hair whipping against his forehead. The look in his eyes is adorable. “In here? Are you sure?”

A flash of rejection washes over me. Does he not want to stay? Casting my eyes to the floor, I drop his hand.

“I’m just surprised you aren’t still trying to kick me out,” he quickly reassures me. “I’m used to begging you to let me stay, not the other way around.”

“I wasn’t begging,” I snap. When our eyes connect again, his smirk appears, and that dimple taunts me. “Fuck you.”

“That’s better. I was starting to wonder where my hellcat was hiding.”

“Get in the fucking bed before I change my mind.” I turn off the bedside lamp and climb in, pulling the covers back for him. The soft light from the moon dimly illuminates the room as he lies down, threading his arms behind his head. Inching closer to him, I lay on my side and drape an arm over his torso as I hook my thigh over his.

I never thought I’d see the day I’d willingly cuddle a man, but something about him soothes my nerves. His touch has become a balm for my soul.

The screen on my phone lights up the room briefly.

“Do you need me to hand you that?” he asks.

“That’s probably Becka,” I say into his chest. She and Robert are probably home by now, and I still haven’t replied to any of her texts or calls yet. “She’s going to freak out when she finds out I had surgery. And I don’t have the energy to explain everything to her right now.”

“You didn’t tell her?” he asks, not a hint of judgment in this tone.

“I didn’t want to worry her. She needed time away with Robert. If I’d told her, she would’ve tried to cut the vacation short, and Robert put a lot of time and thought into that surprise for her. Besides, she worries, and it can be exhausting to deal with a worried Becka.”

“Are you going to tell her?” I can feel his muscles tighten and I wonder what has him so tense.

“I will, but I don’t have it in me right now.”

“I can do it. So you don’t have to.” His hand strokes my back as I consider his offer. “I’ll only share what you’re comfortable with.”

“Why would you do that?” I shift to look up at him, my cheek still pressed against his chest.

“Because I want to take care of you. You need your rest, and it seems like this conversation might drain your emotional battery more than you’re willing to admit.”

How does he do that? At times, it feels as though he’s reading my thoughts, understanding who I am better than I understand myself, anticipating my needs before I’ve even made a mental checklist of what to do first.

“Okay. You can tell her everything. I may ghost her at times, but when I reemerge, I’m an open book with her. And I don’t want her to worry. She’s nothing if not persistent. I give her twenty-four hours before she’s over here unannounced.” Honestly, it’ll probably be less than that if I know Becka.

“I’ll call her for you tomorrow,” he offers, threading a hand through my hair.

My fingers move in lines up and down his stomach, pausing to examine each little groove and divot. A soft groan escapes his lips as his breathing picks up.

---