pain was written all over his body. She stood near his shoulder and met his gaze, looking past the constrained façade to the torment beneath. Then slowly, slowly, she traced the black branch twisting over his biceps with the tip of her tongue.
His lips parted, the only visible reaction to the intense sensation of her mouth on him. He held his breath as she tasted the black branches covering his shoulder.
A tribute. She pressed her lips to the scar at the center of his shoulder. She wanted to ask about his sister, wanted to know more about a man who would mark his body permanently for someone else. It was the kind of thing she would have done when she was young and stupid. She pressed her lips to his shoulder, felt his muscles jump beneath her kiss. For a brief moment, she wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, pressing her cheek to the black lines covering his back, wondering at the boy he had been. At the pain that carved that boy into the man before her.
For once, the silence between them was empty of blame and hurt. Claire was moored to the spot, filled with a warmth that nearly overwhelmed her. Desire burned low and deep in her belly, but now there was more—the connection of shared loss.
He’d shared at least part of the loss that had shaped him into the man she held in her arms. But would he accept the losses that had shaped her?
She didn’t know. And her inability to trust in this fragile connection between them nearly broke her heart.
* * *
There was no reason for him to be standing in the middle of her room. He could have turned out the lights, hiding the tattoo. There was no reason for him to have shown her the ragged memory he’d carved into his body as both penance and tribute.
He wrapped his hands around hers, which were folded against his abdomen. He couldn’t see her face, couldn’t see the questions or the judgment there. Would she look at him and know he was a killer long before the army had pinned a rank on his chest and placed a weapon in his hand?
She called him Captain America. Claire looked at him and saw the man he’d forced himself to become after a single reckless night had driven him away from the home he’d once loved.
It terrified him how easily he’d handed her the power to crush him. A hundred thousand things tumbled through him, twisting and writhing, refusing to be locked down again. Never had a lover taken the time to do something so incredibly erotic and so touching all at once.
Claire shifted until she stood in front of him. She pressed her lips to his collarbone, at the edge of a single, twisted black branch. “How did she die?” Claire’s whispered question pierced the silence. The thin veil of Evan’s control vibrated like awall of heat rising from the pavement in August.
He shifted then, lifting one arm over her shoulder to cradle the back of her neck, struggling to find the words that were not a lie. “Car accident.” He released a shuddering breath. In the thirteen years since his sister had died, he’d never told anyone the full truth of what had happened. “She was sixteen.”
Her palm flattened over the scar where his sister’s name had been, her arms a warm and comforting embrace. Even thinking about it caused the ache in his soul to pound against his veins. “How old were you?” she whispered.
He tipped her head back until he could look into her eyes. They stood, their bodies separated by clothing and heat, the scar on his back a brand. He’d never had a lover ask about him. About his tattoo? Yes. About his little sister? That too.
Maybe it said something about the partners he’d chosen. But before this moment, he’d never wanted to explain about the sister he’d killed, the parents he’d let drift away because it was easier to ignore his pain than face it every time he looked into their eyes, eyes that reminded him so much of Casey. It was easier to turn away from their crushing blame.
“Seventeen.” His breath shuddered from his
His lips parted, the only visible reaction to the intense sensation of her mouth on him. He held his breath as she tasted the black branches covering his shoulder.
A tribute. She pressed her lips to the scar at the center of his shoulder. She wanted to ask about his sister, wanted to know more about a man who would mark his body permanently for someone else. It was the kind of thing she would have done when she was young and stupid. She pressed her lips to his shoulder, felt his muscles jump beneath her kiss. For a brief moment, she wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, pressing her cheek to the black lines covering his back, wondering at the boy he had been. At the pain that carved that boy into the man before her.
For once, the silence between them was empty of blame and hurt. Claire was moored to the spot, filled with a warmth that nearly overwhelmed her. Desire burned low and deep in her belly, but now there was more—the connection of shared loss.
He’d shared at least part of the loss that had shaped him into the man she held in her arms. But would he accept the losses that had shaped her?
She didn’t know. And her inability to trust in this fragile connection between them nearly broke her heart.
* * *
There was no reason for him to be standing in the middle of her room. He could have turned out the lights, hiding the tattoo. There was no reason for him to have shown her the ragged memory he’d carved into his body as both penance and tribute.
He wrapped his hands around hers, which were folded against his abdomen. He couldn’t see her face, couldn’t see the questions or the judgment there. Would she look at him and know he was a killer long before the army had pinned a rank on his chest and placed a weapon in his hand?
She called him Captain America. Claire looked at him and saw the man he’d forced himself to become after a single reckless night had driven him away from the home he’d once loved.
It terrified him how easily he’d handed her the power to crush him. A hundred thousand things tumbled through him, twisting and writhing, refusing to be locked down again. Never had a lover taken the time to do something so incredibly erotic and so touching all at once.
Claire shifted until she stood in front of him. She pressed her lips to his collarbone, at the edge of a single, twisted black branch. “How did she die?” Claire’s whispered question pierced the silence. The thin veil of Evan’s control vibrated like awall of heat rising from the pavement in August.
He shifted then, lifting one arm over her shoulder to cradle the back of her neck, struggling to find the words that were not a lie. “Car accident.” He released a shuddering breath. In the thirteen years since his sister had died, he’d never told anyone the full truth of what had happened. “She was sixteen.”
Her palm flattened over the scar where his sister’s name had been, her arms a warm and comforting embrace. Even thinking about it caused the ache in his soul to pound against his veins. “How old were you?” she whispered.
He tipped her head back until he could look into her eyes. They stood, their bodies separated by clothing and heat, the scar on his back a brand. He’d never had a lover ask about him. About his tattoo? Yes. About his little sister? That too.
Maybe it said something about the partners he’d chosen. But before this moment, he’d never wanted to explain about the sister he’d killed, the parents he’d let drift away because it was easier to ignore his pain than face it every time he looked into their eyes, eyes that reminded him so much of Casey. It was easier to turn away from their crushing blame.
“Seventeen.” His breath shuddered from his
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