Too late Eve realized what she’d let him do.
Swept away in the wave that was Zachary, she’d forgotten.
Panic struck.
Her heart thudded as dread filled her belly. Instinctively, she dropped her right hand to her left shoulder, trying to hide the damage that could no longer be hidden.
Chapter Five
With her throat thick from words that refused to form, Eve found the strength to whisper just one thing.
“Scars.”
Zachary’s face darkened as his gaze lowered to her shoulder, as he took in what her hand couldn’t conceal.
She waited for the horror to set in, waited for the revulsion she knew would come. It always came when she revealed the long, pink line that ran from the top of her left shoulder, down over the upper curve of her breast—not quite covered by the cup of her bra—and ended halfway down her sternum.
“Scars,” he repeated, oh so quietly. But it wasn’t revulsion she saw on his face. It was something else. Something she couldn’t identify.
She held her breath, waited, wished she were anywhere but there.
Then he nodded, as if it all made sense. “Not scared. Scarred.”
Huh?
His expression changed again. This time to concern? “Christ, Tiny.” He traced the line of the scar with a touch so gentle it raised goose bumps on her flesh. “What happened to you?”
It took a few seconds before she could answer. A few seconds of processing his response. It was so unexpected, so tender.
So free of the expected revulsion.
Her heart softened, letting Zachary in. Letting the man step closer—both physically and emotionally—than anyone had gotten to her in a very long time.
It wasn’t easy. Eve fought the need to rail against him. Fought the need to pound her fists on his shoulders and force him to look away. Fought the impulse to cover her repulsive body and run.
She fought, because more than wanting to flee and escape his intense scrutiny, she wanted this time with Zachary. Wanted a chance with him. A minute, an hour. Maybe even a night.
She couldn’t have him forever, not with his redhead looming in his future. But just for now, after the kiss they’d shared, the intimacy that had somehow flowered between them, she wanted…something. With him.
Just for now.
“I…was…” She swallowed and forced the words out. “Injured, eleven years ago. A—” Lord, she didn’t want to tell him. Didn’t want to say it, remember it. “A shop window I was looking in exploded.”
“Jesus.” He stared some more, his brow puckered, his eyes troubled. “Fuck, this must have hurt like hell.”
He didn’t know the half of it.
She shrugged and closed her eyes, telling him silently she couldn’t, wouldn’t answer more questions. She rounded her shoulders, forcing herself to let him look, but this was something she simply wasn’t open to discussing.
Perhaps Zachary sensed as much, because the next thing Eve knew, it wasn’t his fingers feathering over the scar, it was his lips. His soft, warm lips tracing that line from her shoulder, over her breast and down to her sternum. And his tongue, leaving a tingly wet trail that made her belly tumble and her head wobble with confusion.
She flicked her eyes open to stare down at his beautiful brown hair. “Y-you don’t find it repulsive?”
He pressed a kiss to the top of her breastbone. “Find what repulsive?”
“The scar.”
He raised his head to look at her. “Why on earth would I find it repulsive?”
Him and his damn non-answers. “I have a line bisecting the left side of my upper body, Zachary. It’s hardly a visual delight.”
“It’s a scar, Eve. A mark left by what could only have been a physical trauma.” He traced it again with his finger. “The only thing that worries me about it is how fucking much you must have suffered when it happened.”
“Y-you don’t want me to put my shirt on? Go back to my room now?”
Now he stared at her as if she were crazy. “Are you nuts?” He took a step away, a tiny step, and caught her wrist in his hand. “Feel me, Eve. Put your hand over my erection and get a sense of what you to do to me.”
He directed her palm to his groin, making sure, Eve noted, to avoid hand-to-hand contact. “That’s it, Tiny. Press your hand flat against me, so you know how fucking much you turn me on. So you know that every inch of you, scarred or not, arouses me like no one has aroused me before.”
She pressed her palm to his groin, allowed his hard length to fill her hand, and let out a tiny rasp of air.
Yeah, she’d felt him pressed against her before, felt his excitement then, but to feel it now, after he’d seen the visible evidence of her trauma, to know he still wanted her…
God, it was a powerful aphrodisiac. And a powerful boost to her confidence.
“Now—” he snagged her other wrist, “—feel what your holding my cock is doing to my heart.” He placed her hand over his chest.
The thud of his pulse beat against her palm, firm, fast and pounding.
“It’s racing,” she whispered. Her eyes closed as she let his heart beat against her hand, felt his lifeblood pulsing through his chest. “Like your drums, only faster.”
“It’s the rhythm of my heart, Eve. Listen carefully. It’s beating like this because of you.”
“Zachary…”
“Your scar doesn’t scare me. But the thought of your walking away because you’re embarrassed by it does.”
Eve stared at him in wonder. This devastatingly sexual specimen of a man, who inspired hysteria in his fans, desired Eve. He wasn’t fazed by the disfigurement of her chest. Not even one bit.
The man standing before her—with his heart in her hand—made her feel things the scarred, traumatized girl hadn’t felt in, well, ever.
He made her desire things she hadn’t felt worthy of desiring.
Even if the visible scar was just the tip of the iceberg, the sense of being wanted, of being appreciated made her dizzy. It made her emotions crash around like crazy.
“I don’t want to walk away, Zachary.”
Stupidly, speaking out loud made her eyes fill with tears. Which in turn brought back a wave of panic. For the first time in so very, very long, Eve was happy. And sexy. And beautiful. And she had Zachary Pace to thank for that.
The last thing she needed to do now was destroy his image of her with tears. Because if those tears spilled over and wet her cheeks, that image would be torn to shreds—just like her face had been, eleven years ago.
“Oh, shit.” Zachary looked stricken. “Now I’ve made you cry.”
Hastily she brushed at her eyes. Much as she hated to move her hand away from the rhythm of his heart, it would do her no good whatsoever ruining her makeup now. Zachary may have accepted the scar on her chest. There was no need to subject him to the other ones.
“They’re good tears,” she insisted. “Emotional, not sad.”
He frowned. “There’s a difference?”
“There is. You’re making me feel things I’ve never allowed myself to feel. It’s good. Liberating. Scary, but
