Day Leclaire - Nothing Short of Perfect

Her hand glanced off a ridge that wasn’t muscle, a long slashing tear across smooth skin. “Oh, Justice. You weren’t kidding about the scars, were you?”

He stiffened. “It should be too dark for you to see.”

“Well, yes. But I can feel it.”

“Do you find it offensive? Would you prefer to terminate our lovemaking?”

“Termin—” Daisy smothered a laugh. “Honestly, Justice. You’re so funny. I can always tell when you’re upset. You start talking in Basic Geek.”

“I’m not upset.”

“Then what are you?”

“I’m …” He released his breath in a long sigh. “I’m emotionally compromised.”

“It would be a little surprising if you weren’t,” she informed him gently. He didn’t reply, but remained still and quiet beneath her tentative touch. Did he think she’d walk away because of a few scars? He didn’t know her very well anymore, but he’d soon learn. “Let me show you how offensive I find your scars.”

Ever so gently, her touch as soft and light as the sweep of butterfly wings, she pressed her lips to the first, tracing it from end to end. She located the next one and kissed that one, as well. And the next, until she’d found each and every one, created a road map of lingering caresses across his body.

“No more.” His harsh voice split the silence, as twisted and tortured as his scars.

He swept her into his arms and carried her through the living area into the bedroom. A single light burned a pathway through the darkness, chasing away the shadows and haloing the bed in a ring of gold. He came down beside her and the warm glow skated over his work-hardened muscles and sank into the crevices lining his face. Pain lingered there, a pain she’d have given anything to ease. And maybe she could.

Daisy reached for him, pulled him into the warmth of her embrace and adjusted her curves to accommodate his lean, graceful form. No question, Justice had become the panther she’d long considered him, sleek and trim, with an edge of tough, masculine danger. His skin rippled beneath her touch, the sweep of warm, taut sinew as appealing to the artist within her as the faint golden hue of his skin tones. His hardness pitted against all that made her yielding and feminine, creating an interesting dichotomy, one she could lose herself in. So why resist?

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