There it was on her face again. Panic. Put her in a situation out of her control and she floundered. He ran his finger down her cheek, the most delicate of touches. ‘Yes, yes, you can.’ He gently spun her around again. ‘I’ll tell you what I see.’ His hands crept back around her waist, his tall body right behind hers, his strength and muscles running down the
length of her body, his chin resting on her shoulder, staring at their joint reflections.
He smiled into the mirror and touched her hair. ‘I see a beautiful woman, with gorgeous red tresses and magical green eyes.’ He ran his finger along the skin at her neck. ‘I see pale skin and a tiny splash of freckles across her nose.’ His chin swapped round to the other side of her body, as if he was appreciating her from all angles. ‘And I like the pale skin—because it’s different. Most women here could die a death from fake tan—or a death from a real tan. I like it that your skin is completely natural and untouched by the sun. You don’t need a tan. Your pure beauty radiates from your skin.’
His words danced like a song over her. Rising and falling, causing her heart to flutter in her chest one moment and her clenched stomach to flip over the next.
She looked at the reflection in the mirror. The pale face stared back at her. The tired eyes, the washed-out face. Why couldn’t she see what he did?
She leaned backwards a little, relaxing into his strength. In some ways she hated this, and in others she knew that the time was right and this was exactly what she needed. And Lincoln was right—it was easier doing this with a friend.
His hands reached in front of her body to where the towel was tucked in. She flinched. No! She could see the fear in her own face in the mirror, but she was intrigued by his reflection. His fingers were gently untucking the towel, loosening it and lifting the edges, dropping the white towel to the floor and leaving her naked body exposed in front of the mirror.
And his face didn’t look shocked, didn’t look disgusted and didn’t look repulsed. In fact, he bent and kissed the skin at the bottom of her neck, wrapping one arm around her waist, keeping her close to him.
He lifted his head again, staring at her in the mirror. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he whispered, a comforting smile on his face. Her hands were trembling again, she couldn’t help it—she’d never felt so exposed. And although the room was warm, goose-bumps appeared all over her pale flesh.
His hand came up on one side and cupped her full breast. There was nothing sexual in his touch. Her breast was working overtime feeding her son right now and even the slightest touch could make milk leak. On the other side his fingers traced a light line up from her hip bone to under her arm, pausing for only a second before running along the flat, pale, white line of her scar—where her breast should be.
Her eyes took in her reflection. Six weeks on from giving birth and her lower body had started to return to normal. Her stomach wasn’t flat. It probably never would be again and there was a small, visible red scar running along her bikini line. But it was a neat scar, well healed and already starting to retreat into her body. In a few years’ time it would be pale and virtually unnoticeable. Unlike the scar at her breast. A visible marker of something missing.
He kissed her neck again whilst his fingers danced along her skin. And he kept on kissing her as his hands gently caressed her. She was caught, watching the reflection in the mirror of a handsome man touching a lover’s body. There was no shame. No horror. Like a slow movie scene, with romantic music playing. Only this time, instead of music, it was one word repeating itself over and over in her head. Acceptance.
The kisses reached the bottom of her throat. The hand left her full breast—as if he knew it was too sensitive for touch right now—and reached up to tangle in her red curls. He moved, lifting up her arm on her affected side and looping it around behind his neck. Then he watched in the mirror as he ran his fingers once more down her side. Another woman might have flinched at the light, tickling sensations. But for Amy it was different. It was all about acceptance. And it wasn’t about his acceptance of her. It was about her acceptance of her changed body.
She was staring at the reflection in front of her. And the old sensations were gone. And she didn’t see something to be ashamed of. She didn’t see something she should hide from the world. This wasn’t something she would ever share. But it was something that she didn’t need to hide away from any more. For the first time in six years she could look at her naked body without feeling fear or repulsion. This was a woman who had the right to be loved.
Her hand moved from behind his neck to run through his hair. The movement caused her to lean backwards, exposing even more of the sensitive flesh at the base of her neck to his lips. She wasn’t looking in the mirror any more. She was losing herself in the feelings.
‘This is the body of the woman that I love. This is the body of a vibrant, healthy and whole woman.’ His fingers went to her flat surface again. ‘This is only a tiny part of Amy. And I don’t care if you decide to have reconstruction surgery or not. I will take you however you come. If it matters to you then fine. But don’t change anything for me, because I love you just the way you are.’
He spun her round, hands at her waist. He looked her straight in the eye. He moved forward, pressing himself against her. She was naked and he was still fully clothed. But she could feel his hard length through his jeans, pressing against her abdomen. A smile came across her lips.
He was hard. He was very hard. It didn’t matter that she felt her body was disfigured. It didn’t matter that she felt she had to hide. The proof was right in front of her—literally. She turned him on. He wanted her.
She felt twenty-five again. She felt young and whole. The way she used to feel when she’d danced around his cabin naked. Her fingers moved and unfastened the buttons on his jeans, releasing him into her hands.
For the first time in five years she felt powerful. She felt sexual. It was a glimmer of what she’d felt in that hospital room the last time they’d kissed. Control. She felt in control.
He was staring at her, with those sexy, half-shut eyes. Even if she’d been on the other side of the room, those eyes alone could have turned her on. But right now his fingers were moving lower. Going from one set of red curls to another. She moved closer. She wasn’t going to flinch at his touch now. This was what she wanted. She was ready.
She’d had her six-week postnatal check. Everything was as it should be. There was no reason she couldn’t have sex. And from the way her body was currently responding, it was telling her it was time.
He reached his hands up to either side of her head. His eyes fixed on hers. ‘Are you sure?’ he whispered. ‘We only do this if you want to—you’re in charge.’ There was a glimmer in his eye. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was giving her all the control—and it was sexy as hell.
She tilted her head to one side, her eyes glancing down at the prize possession in her hands. ‘I want to see what I’m getting.’ She whipped his T-shirt up and pulled it over his head, revealing his muscular torso. Her hands pressed against him. ‘Not too shabby,’ she whispered with a glint in her eye.
She pushed him backwards onto the bed, climbing above him. ‘So I’m in charge?’ she questioned.
His smile revealed his straight white teeth. ‘Absolutely.’
‘Good. Then this is what we’re going to do…’
* * *
The early morning sunlight was filtering through the blind again. Amy had been up twice in the night to feed and change Zachary, and on each occasion he’d settled back down to sleep quickly.
It would have been nice to wake up in Lincoln’s arms and feel his body heat next to hers, but the reality of a premature baby dictated how things would work out.
Last night had been cathartic for her. She’d finally got to the place she needed to. She’d felt desired, wanted, sexual. She’d felt loved. But the early morning light brought a whole new range of issues with it. Issues where she’d barely even scratched the surface. She threw back the white duvet and swung her legs out of the bed. Her feet padded across the dark wooden floor and she stopped in the doorway of Lincoln’s room.
His long, lean naked body was entwined around his duvet cover. It looked like one
of those ultra-trendy pictures you could buy in black and white and put on your wall. His chest was rising and falling and there was a dark shadow around his chin where the stubble was starting to appear. He was picture-perfect.
She moved in front of the free-standing mirror where he’d undressed her last night. She released the belt on the fluffy white dressing gown and let it fall open. She stared at her reflection. One round full breast and one flat white scar. Her finger traced along the line of the scar. Even now, after everything that had happened, it still made a little shiver go down her spine. Last night Lincoln had shown her acceptance. Acceptance for who she was now. She kept staring, her breathing and heart rate quickening. She didn’t like the image in the mirror. She didn’t like the person staring back at her. Lincoln may have shown her acceptance but in the cold light of day she couldn’t accept herself. She couldn’t accept the reflection in the mirror.
Last night may have been wonderful, but it was only the start of the journey for her.
She could hear his breathing behind her. It could be so easy if she could just push all this aside and forget about it. It would be so easy to climb into bed next to him and snuggle into his arms. But this was never going to go away.
What was wrong? Why did her life feel like sand running through her fingers on the beach? How could she explain that to him? How could she tell him that no matter how good he was to her and Zachary, right now she needed to be on her own. How could she tell him she had to leave?
This was killing her. She’d thought that the cancer might kill her and she’d beaten that. But this was causing her more pain than the cancer ever had. More pain than the surgery and more pain than the chemotherapy and radiotherapy put together. And the worst thing about this was that she was the only person who could feel it. She wanted to feel free, she wanted to feel easy with herself. More than anything she wanted to have a happy family life. And she knew without a shadow of a doubt that Lincoln loved Zachary as if he were his own.