Page 46 of Resisting His Target
She was struck by how vital these feelings were to living—really living—and how she never again wanted to live her life without them.
Her eyes opened.
It wasn’t just the sex she wanted in her life, it was Ian.
The future was something they hadn’t discussed, the potential for a real relationship. But she suddenly realized they were already in one, and she desperately wanted it to continue.
Her stare settled on his face, his wide hands spanning her lower back, caressing the muscles along her spine before moving lower to lift her ass and fit her tightly against him.
The intensity of their stare was more intimate than his touch. In the dim golden light spilling from the window, she saw one patch of altered skin led to another, the surface both silky and rough, and she brought her hand up to touch his face.
This man had paid a heavy price for his country, and she was struck by the difference between the two men she’d held in her arms who claimed to love America.
Only one of them was a hero.
She lightly kissed his scarred cheek, moving slowly past his eye to kiss a large patch of scarred skin before returning to his mouth and kissing him deeply with her own. She was savoring him, tasting his sacrifice, wanting to drink him up like an antidote to everything that had gone wrong before this moment.
He pulled her hand away from his face. “Don’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Just don’t.”
“It’s a part of you.”
He pulled back. “It’s ugly.”
“Is that what you see?”
“That’s what everyone sees.”
“Not me. I look at your face and I see a hero, a warrior. You’re beautiful.”
He sighed, dropping his arms and sitting up. “You really know how to kill a mood.”
She sat up. “By telling you I admire you and what you stand for?”
“By patronizing me.”
“Patronizing you?”
“Yes. I have a mirror. I can see. Nothing about this face is beautiful. Don’t treat me like a charity case who needs to feel better, Jackie.”
“I wasn’t! I—”
He laughed without humor. “That’s exactly what you were doing.” He stood.
“I meant what I said. Those scars are a testament to who you are as a person.”
He put his hands up and backed away. “All right, you know what? Let’s just forget about it.” He picked his sweatpants up off the floor. “It’s getting late.”
“Ian.” She got up and crossed to him, reaching to touch his face, but he pushed her hand away.
“I said stop.”
She frowned, watching as he pulled on his pants, another barrier between them. “You’re shutting me out. Over this.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
