No Regrets, No Surrender(29)

“Yes, you are.” Her swift defense demanded a kiss, but he fought that urge, silently promising he’d reward it later.

“I’m not. But it wasn’t the physical scars, Jazz. It’s the scars on the inside, the ones no one else can see.” She needed a push, a very hard push. It would hurt like hell if it backfired, but he was tired of the distance she kept trying to put between them. Watching her struggle and fight as though she were alone exhausted him. He’d never left a man behind, and he sure as shit wasn’t about to start now.

Starting at her cheek, he stroked his fingers up and down the side of her face. “You’ve been through hell. I know that. I’d like to say I know exactly what you feel, but I don’t. I know what I think you’re feeling. But I’m not inside that beautiful head of yours.”

Her unspoken denial of the compliment flared in her eyes. He knew it would. She didn’t recognize the woman in the mirror. She saw the damage, not the strength. She saw the horror, not the joy. She saw the pain, not the survival. Steeled against the consequences, he touched the stubble where her hair should be. They’d shaved all of it off. The stitches were healed, but the fresh pink scars betrayed the recent damage.

The flinch warned him away, but he wasn’t about to shy from a battle that had to be won. If she truly believed that her scars made her unattractive, it was up to him to prove otherwise. He rose to his feet. Shifting to slide sideways onto the bed next to her, he pressed his lips to the first scar he saw. The stubble was rough and soft, almost downy in spots. He traced the long scar where they’d removed the shrapnel. She froze against him. Her right hand clutched at the air, but she didn’t push him away.

“You know what the scariest thing has been for me?” A circular scar dimpled the back of her head. “It wasn’t the news, the hospital stay, or the surgeries.” He stretched around her, punctuating each word with another soft kiss. It was truly the first time he’d been able to see the scars. She covered up whenever they were in the room and resisted their presence when the neurosurgeon or other physician checked on her.

He waited her out until her silence cracked under a damp sniffle. “What was the worst part for you?”

“The part where you pushed me—both of us—away.” He whispered the last against her ear. “If you don’t want to have sex. Fine. If you think you’re uglier for whatever reason. Fine. But sweetheart, that’s not what I see and that’s not what I feel. I just want to hold you, to be there for you, and to face this down with you.”

The last made him a bit of a liar. It definitely wasn’t fine if she didn’t want to have sex, but he could wait and would wait, if that was what she wanted. He lifted his head, backing off enough to see her face.

“I want you.” Warts and all. He couldn’t make that any clearer.

“This is so messed up.” She wrinkled her nose and laughter hinted around the edges of her watery smile. “I’m messed up. Why would anyone want that? You guys have lives—had them—before you got stuck with me.”

Unfortunately, no matter how much she believed that statement, it only pissed him off. He closed the distance and captured her mouth in a kiss that was equal parts affection and anger. Cupping her face in his hands, he gave her no room to evade or escape. In this, if nothing else, she would accept his leadership. She might be lost in the woods and uncertain of how desirable she was, but in this he demanded submission. He ran his tongue along the seam of her lips, requesting access. Her mouth softened, opened, and welcomed him.

A long, low groan of need thrummed through him. He’d kept his distance, pressed her only about what she needed to do physically to recover, watched her medication, and hounded her about her appointments. He’d done everything except show her with his body how important she was to him.

An issue he planned to rectify immediately. Her nails scraped his scalp, tugging him closer. The kiss was far from gentle. The contact threatened to do him in, his body screamed readiness at the flood of heat, the wash of hunger. He fought to hold steady, to pour his need and desire into the contact.

When he finally lifted his head, she stared at him, slack-jawed and panting. Her nipples pressed eagerly against her shirt. Her hands held onto his head and her eyes were wide, liquid. She trembled, but it wasn’t weakness he sensed at all. But need.

“Damn.” Zach’s low whistle sliced through the tension. Jazz didn’t quite jump, but a flush of red stained her face and she jerked to look at the Marine leaning against the now open bedroom door. “That’s hot.”