Her hands pull at my shirt. “Off.”
I step back and strip it over my head.
Her eyes move over me.
Scars. Ink. Muscle. Bruises. All the things I have collected because living as me requires souvenirs.
Her gaze catches on an old scar along my ribs.
Ray’s coffee table.
I see the question.
Not now.
Not tonight.
She doesn’t ask.
She touches it instead.
That touch is worse.
Better.
Everything.
“You’re beautiful,” she whispers.
I laugh because the words are absurd.
She looks up. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make it small because you don’t know how to take it.”
I go still.
She sees too damn much.
I bend and kiss her before she sees more.
The kiss goes hot fast.
Her hands move over my chest, my shoulders, my back, learning me with a hunger that feels almost angry. Like she is mad anybody ever made her afraid to want this. I understand that anger. I feed it. I kiss her harder, press her back toward the bed, and when her knees hit the mattress, I stop again.
She looks at me, frustrated. “Derby.”
“Jeans.”
She blinks.
“You want them off?”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”