wanted me to be happy. Having her wrapped around me, buried inside her, made me happy.
For however long I had her, that was what I wanted.
CHAPTER TEN
The sun slowly rose, the soft light filling the room as I lay in silence, staring at Zachary. Sound asleep, his face was peaceful, the stress lines, which seemed etched in his skin while awake, now relaxed and smooth on his forehead. Lying on his side, his scars hidden from view, he was, indeed, a handsome man. Long lashes, a woman would envy, rested on his upper cheek, dark and thick like fringes on a cushion. His nose was slightly fuller than conventional, and his face long, with prominent, strong cheekbones. Unshaven, his chin was thick with coarse hair, at least on one half of his face. His hair was so dark you expected his eyes to match, so when you were met with hazel-colored irises, it was unusual.
I wondered if he knew how his eyes changed color to match his mood or how mesmerizing it was when it happened. I’d seen them a bright blue, a reflective shade of green, and when angry, an icy gray. They reminded me of the ocean waves he liked to paint—never ending with the varying shades of color, rich and vibrant with life. They darkened when he was passionate—either with desire or anger. I was already familiar with those emotions. One look from Zachary could cause my heart to flutter in my chest. Never had I felt myself so attuned to another person’s emotions; it was as if my soul felt the shift of his mood and transformed itself to match. He could make me feel lust, anger, or happiness so fast; I barely knew it was happening.
I also wondered if anyone ever looked close enough to notice when he seemed angry or dismissive, the expression in his eyes actually belied his actions. They spoke of hurt and pain, of pushing you away before you could push him away. Somehow I doubted it, since as soon as he began pushing, they began walking. That was exactly what he banked on. He chose when you left, not the other way around.
I sighed as he slept on. His heavy arm draped over my waist, where it had been most of the night, not allowing me to move very much. I hadn’t been sure if he’d want me to stay or not after we’d eaten, but when he stood up, lifting and carrying me back to his room, my uncertainty vanished. I wanted to stay here with him. I couldn’t understand the draw I had or why it was so important for me to be with him, but it was. Never before had I acted like this with another man—or even another person. It was as though I couldn’t stay away from him. From the moment I saw his painting: Tempest— the angry swirls of paint spoke to me. When I met the irate, scarred man behind the brush, I was drawn to him, as well.
His scars didn’t bother me the way he felt they should. They bothered me because of the obvious pain—both physical and mental—they caused him. My heart ached when I saw a grimace of pain pass over his face at times. I wanted nothing more than to ease it in some way. There were so many questions I wanted to ask him, but I was also smart enough to know he wasn’t ready to tell me yet. I had to be patient and let him tell me when he was ready. The way he acted, I knew he was as confused by his feelings as I was about mine.
He groaned and rolled on his back, his arm lazily lowering over his face, never waking up. Slowly, so I didn’t disturb him, I leaned up on my elbow to study him. I had seen some of his scars, felt them, even kissed them, but this was the first time I was able to really look at them. All on the right side of his body, they varied in degree. His arm and face were the most deeply scarred—the skin marred and puckered in angry looking ridges. His chest had some scars, as well as some pitting scattered on the left side. More ravaged skin ran up his neck and the side of his face, the worst scar reaching to his mouth, twisting the skin up tight. Remembering his words, and the way he made sure to hide that
For however long I had her, that was what I wanted.
CHAPTER TEN
The sun slowly rose, the soft light filling the room as I lay in silence, staring at Zachary. Sound asleep, his face was peaceful, the stress lines, which seemed etched in his skin while awake, now relaxed and smooth on his forehead. Lying on his side, his scars hidden from view, he was, indeed, a handsome man. Long lashes, a woman would envy, rested on his upper cheek, dark and thick like fringes on a cushion. His nose was slightly fuller than conventional, and his face long, with prominent, strong cheekbones. Unshaven, his chin was thick with coarse hair, at least on one half of his face. His hair was so dark you expected his eyes to match, so when you were met with hazel-colored irises, it was unusual.
I wondered if he knew how his eyes changed color to match his mood or how mesmerizing it was when it happened. I’d seen them a bright blue, a reflective shade of green, and when angry, an icy gray. They reminded me of the ocean waves he liked to paint—never ending with the varying shades of color, rich and vibrant with life. They darkened when he was passionate—either with desire or anger. I was already familiar with those emotions. One look from Zachary could cause my heart to flutter in my chest. Never had I felt myself so attuned to another person’s emotions; it was as if my soul felt the shift of his mood and transformed itself to match. He could make me feel lust, anger, or happiness so fast; I barely knew it was happening.
I also wondered if anyone ever looked close enough to notice when he seemed angry or dismissive, the expression in his eyes actually belied his actions. They spoke of hurt and pain, of pushing you away before you could push him away. Somehow I doubted it, since as soon as he began pushing, they began walking. That was exactly what he banked on. He chose when you left, not the other way around.
I sighed as he slept on. His heavy arm draped over my waist, where it had been most of the night, not allowing me to move very much. I hadn’t been sure if he’d want me to stay or not after we’d eaten, but when he stood up, lifting and carrying me back to his room, my uncertainty vanished. I wanted to stay here with him. I couldn’t understand the draw I had or why it was so important for me to be with him, but it was. Never before had I acted like this with another man—or even another person. It was as though I couldn’t stay away from him. From the moment I saw his painting: Tempest— the angry swirls of paint spoke to me. When I met the irate, scarred man behind the brush, I was drawn to him, as well.
His scars didn’t bother me the way he felt they should. They bothered me because of the obvious pain—both physical and mental—they caused him. My heart ached when I saw a grimace of pain pass over his face at times. I wanted nothing more than to ease it in some way. There were so many questions I wanted to ask him, but I was also smart enough to know he wasn’t ready to tell me yet. I had to be patient and let him tell me when he was ready. The way he acted, I knew he was as confused by his feelings as I was about mine.
He groaned and rolled on his back, his arm lazily lowering over his face, never waking up. Slowly, so I didn’t disturb him, I leaned up on my elbow to study him. I had seen some of his scars, felt them, even kissed them, but this was the first time I was able to really look at them. All on the right side of his body, they varied in degree. His arm and face were the most deeply scarred—the skin marred and puckered in angry looking ridges. His chest had some scars, as well as some pitting scattered on the left side. More ravaged skin ran up his neck and the side of his face, the worst scar reaching to his mouth, twisting the skin up tight. Remembering his words, and the way he made sure to hide that
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