Page 51 of Tattered and Torn

I’m on pins and needles, practically holding my breath as I wait for him to finish that statement. “You never dreamed what?”

He meets my gaze once more, looking determined now. “That you could want me.”

I’m shaken by his raw honesty. That couldn’t have been easy to admit. “Well, I do.”

“You hardly know me.”

“I know you’re a good man. And I know I’m attracted to you. Isn’t that a good start?”

His eyes widen at my confession, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Your scars don’t detract from your appearance, John. If anything, they’re a badge of courage. An indication of your strength and resilience.”

He chuckles nervously. “You get all that from some burn scars?”

“No, not from the scars.” I take a step toward him, reaching out to cup the right side of his face. I brush my thumb across his full lower lip, then along the upper edge of his trim beard.

When his eyes drift shut and he lets out a shaky breath, I know I’m right, at least about his character. This means something to him. It’s not just an opportunity for a quick fuck. It’s more, so much more.

Taking a risk, I lift my free hand as if I’m going to cup the left side of his face, but I pause halfway, giving him a chance to pull away. “Can I touch your face?”

Even though his posture is tense, his gaze wary, he nods.

Gently, I press my fingers to his left cheek. The skin on that side of his face is slightly darker and tight. There are some ridges and indentations, some wrinkles and puckers.

He shudders when I gently brush my thumb over his cheek.

I pull my hand back. “Does that hurt?”

“No. It feels—weird. Many of the nerves in my face were damaged. Some of them have grown back, but not all. It’s been a slow process.”

I nod, understanding both his explanation and admiring the courage it must take for him to open up like this. To allow himself to be vulnerable. I have a feeling he doesn’t do it often. “Would you like to sit down?”

“Yeah.” He breathes a sigh of relief, as if he’s off the hook for the moment.

I sit first, giving him the option on where he wants to sit. He can sit with me on the sofa, or he can take the chair and keep some distance between us.

To my surprise, he chooses the sofa, dropping down beside me. Our bodies are just inches apart.

“Have you been with someone since you were hurt?” I ask.

He nods. “A few times.” He gives me a self-recriminating look. “They were random hook-ups. Women I met in bars. They were drunk; I was drunk.” He pauses as if he’s deciding how much to reveal. “It didn’t go well.”

“Why not?” I hate asking, but I need to know if he has physical limitations I should be aware of.

He shrugs. “They were mostly curious, mostly gawkers. I think I was a pity fuck to them. Each time they walked out afterward without saying a word.”

I wince at the harshness of his words. “I’m so sorry.”

He turns to face me. “Gabrielle, I—you’re an amazing woman and I don’t deserve you. But for some crazy reason you seem to like me—”

I lean in and kiss him, pressing my lips to his. “Yes, I like you. A lot.” I reach for his left hand, squeezing it gently through the glove.

He closes his eyes, and again I’m afraid I’ve hurt him. I release his hand. “I’m sorry—”

“No!” His eyes pop back open. “I’m not used to being touched. It’ll take some gettin’ used to.”

“Do you feel comfortable taking your glove off?”

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