Page 193 of Silver Elite

“No, and stop being a smart-ass.”

“Sorry.”

“All I’m saying is, you got me thinking earlier. About how we can’t erase our scars because we need them to remember.”

I realize I’m still touching his bare chest and can’t help but stroke his heavy pecs. He makes a sound of contentment.

“If you keep touching me…” he warns.

“What?” I say with a taunting smile. “What are you going to do?”

His eyes smolder. “I wasn’t done talking.”

“Oh, now you’re Mr. Chatty?”

“I guess you bring out that side in me.”

He captures my hand beneath his. Then, keeping it pressed to his chest, he slides it to his other pec, directly over his heart. I feel it hammering against my palm.

“They’re not ugly,” he says. “You said earlier that you know the scars are ugly, but they’re not.”

He gently pushes me toward the bedroom. The backs of my knees bump into the bed. I sink down onto the edge, and suddenly Cross is on his knees in front of me, pulling at my loose linen pants.

He licks his lips when my bare legs are revealed, but his eyes focus on my thigh. The puckered skin, the pink ridges.

“They’re not ugly.” His fingers skim over the burn tissue, tracing the textured ridges.

A wave of insecurity washes over me. “Got it,” I say, trying to shift away from his touch. “You don’t think they’re ugly.”

“I think they’re beautiful.”

“Now you’re messing with me.”

“No.” He runs his palm over the scarred expanse. “I don’t care if you got this from a pot of boiling water or an enemy attack in the Last War. It’s still a battle wound. A testament to how strong you are. It’s goddamn beautiful.”

My throat is dry now. And my heart stutters when he kisses the scar tissue.

It’s so intimate that it triggers a pang of discomfort, so I try to lighten the mood by saying, “Just so you know, there’s zero sensation there.”

Chuckling, he rests his other hand on my other thigh. The one unmarked by burns.

“How about over here? No sensation?”

“All the sensation,” I whisper, falling back on my elbows as he glides his hand between the juncture of my thighs.

His mouth is still on my burn when his finger slips inside me. I cry out from the pleasure that rocks my body.

“Goddamn beautiful,” he repeats, and then kisses his way to where I want him most.

—

He stays the night. It’s a rare occurrence. But he’s in my bed when I wake up, lying on his side, his arm crooked under his head. My gaze fixes on his tattoos. I’ve been up close and personal with them plenty of times since Cross and I started…enjoying each other. But my resolve to keep an emotional distance means refraining from digging deeper. It means I can’t ask why he chose wings and fire, or what those mystifying lines of script signify.

Memories of eternal snow.

When the wind turns against you.

A single second.

---