Right Through Me (The Obsidian Files #1)(37)

He looked immensely strong, carved and cut, his massive musculature still somehow lean and economical. But scars marked his smooth olive skin, cutting through the hair on his chest and the trail down his belly. Some were in regular, squared patterns. Some were symmetrical and circular, others puckered and random like knife slashes or bullet wounds. Some looked like burns.

He waited patiently, his face somber and watchful.

Her overheated imagination started to generate images of all the possible injuries that could have caused them. She stopped. Nothing made sense. There were too many scars. They practically covered him.

“How did that happen?” she asked.

“Not all at once.” He shrugged. “Long story.”

“Were you in the military or something?”

“Something like that.”

She trailed her finger over a symmetrical cross-hatch on his upper arm. “This isn’t a random injury. But it’s not a surgical scar, either.”

“So you get to ask me personal questions about my past? With a straight face?”

“Sorry,” she murmured. “Never mind.”

“But there’s the other possibility,” he said.

“And that is?”

“Show me yours,” he said, his voice low and intent. “And I’ll show you mine. I will tell you the whole weird, scary story, I swear to God.”

They stared at each other. She felt so naked, but he still wasn’t satisfied. He wanted every part of her completely bare.

So they had something in common. They both carried the marks of their suffering. His were just more visible than hers. “Never mind,” she whispered.

His big shoulders lifted. “All right. So, do you still want to do this?”

She was confused. “Of course,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I?”

His eyes slid away. “The scars.” He sounded uncertain. “They can be a turn-off.”

“They’re not,” she said. “Not at all. We all have scars, of one kind or another.”

“It freaks some women out. That was why . . .” His voice trailed off. “I just wanted to make you come again, before the big reveal. In case it all ended right there.”

It squeezed her heart to imagine a guy like him feeling insecure. She kissed the jut of his cheekbone. “I’m not turned off,” she said. “Curious, yes. Sorry you suffered all that damage. But not turned off in the least.”

“Good.” He grabbed her hands, kissed them, and placed them on his shoulders. “Then hold on to me. I want to make you come again.”

His erection prodded her thigh through the fabric of his pants. Her hands skittered nervously all over his hot, bare skin, the rough ridges and bumps, afraid to land anywhere, as if he were charged with electricity and every touch was a jittery shock. He stroked her with skill, then got bolder, opening her as he caressed her clitoris with his thumb. A low growl vibrated in his chest as he sank his fingers inside her and found her slippery and drenched.

“All wet,” he muttered against her throat. “Later, after you’re more relaxed, I want to go down on you and do this with my tongue. For hours.”

Her channel clenched eagerly around his hand at his words. He thrust deeper. “Dance over me,” he whispered. “Move over my hand.”

She swayed slowly, undulating over the fingers he was thrusting tenderly inside her. His hand went deeper, in and out. But what she was doing to him was even more intimate. Touching his skin for the first time, everywhere. The supple muscles under the scars felt wonderful. He smelled wonderful. Wood, smoke, spice, salt sweat, man musk. Her fingers slid through his thick hair, over the taut tendons of his neck.

All that powerful male energy was focused on her. His essential self, reaching for her, merging with her. Touching her soul, and her soul responded, opening, brightening, and then a huge bright torrent of sensation, so strong—

It tore through her, wrenching her with a pleasure even more intense than before.

His low voice had been vibrating for a while against her throat before she put her mind together enough to understand spoken language. “. . . so open,” he was saying in a wondering tone. He withdrew his hand from her body and clasped her to him, stroking her back reverently. “Fucking beautiful. How you’re so goddamn open.”

Caro focused on him, still not quite back from where he’d taken her. “Like hell,” she said. “Not me. Not open at all.”

“You are with me,” he said. “Do you come like that every time?”

She shook her head. “Not ever,” she said. “Not once. Nowhere near. It’s you.”

His head tilted to the side. “Hmm. I like that.”

The look in his eyes hit her hard someplace very deep and unexpected. She didn’t so much burst into tears as disintegrate into them.

Noah’s arms circled her. “What is it? Did I do something wrong?”

She shook her head. His neck was wet from her tears. His hand wound into her hair, massaging her head, slow and soothing. Hugging her tightly.

She finally managed to calm the storm. He held out a handful of tissues.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“Don’t apologize,” he said. “I want you to feel safe. I want you to relax.”

“I don’t think that’s up to my conscious mind,” she told him.