He stood hesitantly next to the bed, and it reminded me so much of our very first time together. He’d been broken then, too.
I pulled the curtains, but the sun was still high in the sky and the room was filled with a soft, muted light.
I walked back over to him and reached up to stroke his face. He leaned into my hand and his eyes closed.
“I don’t know if I can…”
“Shh, tesoro. I just want to feel your skin next to mine. Anything else, well, that’s a bonus.”
I kissed him slowly and tenderly, remembering, relearning, starting again. He returned my kisses, carefully to begin with, and I felt the first small flames of passion heat his blood. He swept my hair off my neck and ran his tongue up to my jaw. His hands massaged my waist, kneading my flesh. Then his right hand crept up my body and I felt his touch hover over my bra strap, before his left hand slowly descended to cup my behind.
It felt so good to have his hands on me again and, despite what I’d said to him, I was desperate for him to know me as a man could know a woman, but I also knew I couldn’t rush this.
I pushed my hands up under his t-shirt and stroked his warm, silky skin. Carefully, I traced my finger across the small, round scar, where the bullet that punctured his lung had exited his body. I needed him to know that it didn’t make any difference to me, that I loved him regardless.
He tensed slightly, so I moved my hand away, instead letting my fingers drift down his spine, stroking his back and shoulders.
He continued to kiss me, his touch slowly becoming more assured. He wove his fingers into my hair, tightening his grip.
I could taste his desire and need, but I could feel his anxiety, too. It had been so long since we’d touched each other that there was an additional pressure and weight of expectation.
Gently, I reached for his t-shirt, feeling his slight resistance before he let me pull it over his head.
I could see his ribs plainly, but his muscle tone was beginning to recover. Plenty of love and home-cooking: that’s what he needed. And time—a whole lifetime of love.
I wondered, briefly, where he’d put his dog tags; they’d disappeared shortly after he’d come home. I hoped he hadn’t done anything hasty, like destroying them or throwing them away, because I knew he’d regret that one day.
I reached for his belt, cinched in two more holes because of his weight loss, but he caught my hands and shook his head.
“I don’t think I’m ready for this, Caro. What if…?”
My frustration was ready to boil over, but then I was struck with sudden inspiration.
“Want me to show you how I reminded myself of you when you were in the hospital?” I said, looking directly into his eyes.
He nodded, his pupils dilating in a way that filled me with confidence, because it showed that he still desired me.
“I will, if you take off your pants.”
“Caro…”
“That’s the deal, Sebastian. Non-negotiable.”
He hesitated for a moment, then unbuckled his belt and dropped his jeans to the floor. He angled his right leg away from me, and I knew it was because he was trying to hide the ugly scar that ran the length of his thigh. But it didn’t hide the slight bulge in his briefs: it wasn’t a full erection by any means, but it was a start.
“Sit in the chair: make yourself comfortable—I could be some time.”
I was rewarded with a slight smile.
“First, I’d draw the curtains,” I said, pointing toward the windows like a flight attendant. “Then, I’d pull back the duvet and arrange the pillows.”
As I spoke, I flicked back the sheets and piled up the pillows near the headboard.
“Then I’d put on a little mood music…”
I pointed the remote control at my CD player, and the sounds of Martha’s Harbour swirled softly from the speakers.
You are an ocean wave, my love
Crashing at my bow…
“I’d kick off my sneakers, because, well, I’m really not a Manolo sort of girl … that’s high heels to you, Hunter.”
He rolled his eyes. “I lived in Paris for six months, Caro. I have heard of Manolo Blahnik.”
“Yes, well, he’s from Spain, so there’s no need to look so superior, Sebastian.”
Secretly, I was thrilled he was playing along and had relaxed enough to be able to tease me.
“Besides,” I went on, “I can’t walk in high-heels unless I’ve got you to hang onto … but I’m not averse to wearing them in the bedroom.”
His breath caught in his throat, and his hands gripped the edge of his chair. I tried not to stare at his briefs, but that was the area I really wanted to affect. I hoped our banter would help him to relax, because I longed to feel his body—next to mine, inside mine.