“You know,” I started rocking my body against his. “You’ve seen me naked twice. I’d say it’s time for you to return the favor.”
“I’m naked where it counts,” he grinned mischievously, thrusting his hips forward so that I could feel exactly how naked that part of him was.
And as much as I wanted to explore his body further in regards to that, I could tell he was doing his best to avoid doing what I wanted. Fed up, I finally just asked straight out.
“Marco, why won’t you take off your shirt?”
He stopped moving and frowned, but answered nonetheless. “I don’t want to gross you out.”
“What do you think I’ll be grossed out by? Your…” I gestured toward his crotch under the covers.
“No. Christ, I hope that doesn’t gross you out.” He pulled away, sitting up and releasing a male noise of frustration. “I’ve already fucked this up once—ruined the moment. I’d rather not do it again.”
I have to admit to feeling bewildered for a few seconds. But then, everything clicked into place. The burn scars. He was hiding them from me. If he was this concerned about them, he must think them hideous. I considered the photos I’d seen of third-degree burns on the internet.
Some were gory. Some disfigured the patient to the point of hampering their mobility. All were tragic and permanent.
But would they ruin the moment?
Not if I didn’t let them.
As long as I proved to him that they didn’t bother me, it’d be okay. Right? They’d quit being an issue. I hoped.
Swallowing hard and gathering my courage, I took a deep breath. “I want to see you. All of you.”
In response, he scowled at me. Scowled.
I’d been privy to several of Marco’s moods and reactions.
He had both a serious and a playful side. I’d seen what he was like when in pain, when filled with lust, and when angry and aggravated. I’d seen the nurturing side of him, too. And a little bit ago, I’d seen him be genuinely fearful. Now what I saw out of him was a mixture of several at once: I could feel his anger and aggravation, yes. But I could also sense his fear.
Much as I doubted he’d admit it.
He huffed out audibly and sat up. He finished unbuttoning his shirt, then yanked it down and off his shoulders. Keeping the shirt within reach, he remained ramrod straight in front of me, his breathing too fast and his gaze averted.
He was sincerely nervous about this.
So I steeled myself. No matter how awful they were, I made the decision to not react in even a minimally negative way. I couldn’t. He’d trusted me with this, and I wasn’t about to disappoint or upset him now.
I raised up onto my knees and peeked over at him.
The scar was large. It stretched in a wide patch along the tops of both shoulders and partway down his back. It reached up his neck to the place where a collar would sit, then dipped in an irregular pattern across the length of his shoulder blades.
Within the scarred area lay impressions that must’ve come from skin grafts; there was a uniformity to those parts, like the meshed fibers of a loosely woven fabric. Parts of the scar matched his skin tone, while some were a darker pink or even a pale white color.
Unlike the rest of his smooth skin, the scar was shiny in places, dull in others, and was upraised throughout. I was certain that if I touched it, I could feel the difference between it and his normal, healthy skin.
But it wasn’t inconceivably horrifying or anything. I felt terrible that it had happened to him—I couldn’t imagine how excruciating that must’ve been for Marco to endure—but it didn’t bother me. And it definitely didn’t gross me out.
To prove this, I scooted up closer to him. Using a feather light touch, I pressed my lips to the middle of his scar. His whole frame twitched when I did, as if he hadn’t been expecting that, but he didn’t stop me. I continued to cover every inch of the damaged skin with kisses, needing him to know that I accepted him, scar or no scar. I accepted him just as he was.
When I finished, I enveloped him in my arms, pressing my bare chest to his back as I embraced him from behind. He twisted around and I loosened my grip, catching sight of his face.
His expression nearly made me break down. It was equal parts astounded, stricken, and grateful, and when he touched his lips to mine, I could feel every bit of that emotion flowing out of him and into me.
Our kisses went from tender to impassioned, and he began to massage me all over, building to something powerful. Once he brought me to the point of trembling, he drew back as if to leave the bed.
“But…” If he left me high and dry now, I truly would break down and cry. “Don’t go.”