I love it. I love that he's got so many layers, so many puzzles for my senses. The hollow between my thighs is wet with need, my mind already fantasizing about how it'll feel when he's inside me.
Sawyer's hands go up my shirt, one drifting over the scars on my back, and I hesitate for the first time.
The scars remind me of how much we've been through, of how battered we both are as people. He's honorable, good and deserves everything good in the world. Being this close to someone this amazing reminds me of how flawed and imperfect I really am.
"What's wrong?" he whispers, resting his forehead against mine.
"I, uh … one sec." Prying myself loose from him, I go to stand in front of the hearth. The fire is the only light in my room.
Sawyer trails without crowding me, calm as always when my hands are trembling from emotion and need. I wish so much that I could have more self-control like he does, especially right now. My soul feels exposed, and I'm terrified we'll end up where we've been the past few months: devastated.
I pull off my shirt and unsnap my bra, dropping both. "I want to show you my scars."
"I've seen them, Katya," he replies gently.
I face him, not surprised when his eyes go to my breasts. He's so sexy right now, standing in his jeans with his perfect upper body exposed. His brown eyes are bright with desire, his features softened with affection.
"No, Sawyer," I say with some impatience. "I want you to see all of me. Every last imperfection. Because I'm afraid if we do this, and you don't …" I can't finish. I don't know how to say what I feel. This is so much more than one night with him, and if he is going to be scared off by something about me, I'd rather know that now than later.
My heart can't take him breaking it again. I'm about to lower every inch of my guard to someone I admire and respect more than I can express, and I'm scared.
His gaze lifts to mine, and understanding flickers through his features. "Show me," he whispers.
I fumble with my jeans and unbutton them, pushing them and my underwear to the floor. I turn my back to him and pull my hair over one shoulder, so he can see the extent of the damage.
"I've got a lot of scars," I say into the quietness.
His hand touches my shoulder lightly and goes down my back, tracing the edges of the scar tissue.
"You're beautiful to me, Katya," he murmurs, his other hand resting on one of my hips. I can feel the heat of his bare chest, inches from my back. "I don't care how many scars you have or understand why you think who you are is going to scare me off." His voice carries a tender note.