22

Brandon stands, his eyes not leaving mine. Then he pulls off his black shirt over his head, exposing the scar on his chest. The scar covers almost half of his left chest. The dry, yellowish, dead skin around it is almost painful to see, but I don’t look away. I can’t. Instead, I stare at his imperfection.

“Touch me, Alayna,” he says tenderly; it’s almost a whisper.

I swallow hard. “Are you sure?”

He doesn’t respond, but I lift my hand and begin tracing his oblique muscle with my finger. I slowly move to his rock-hard abdominals. I finally stand; my hands are still on the flatness of his stomach.

Brandon lets out a hitched breath. I stop.

“Are you okay?”

He nods. “Don’t stop.”

He holds my hands and brings my palms to his chest. I can slightly feel the texture of his scar against my fingertips.

Gently, I trace the scar. The skin is oddly soft, but the surface feels thick. I shut my eyes and stop. I’m not sure anymore if I can carry on. He’s panting, and I can see that he’s trying to bea