CHAPTER THIRTEEN
TESS
Not even my best girlfriend knows about it. Because its too ugly to share. Since I was five I’ve managed to hide it.
Oh, sure, there were questions. Easy-to-navigate stuff at first. Why don’t you wear tank tops? Why do you swim with a T-shirt on? Why don’t you have to shower after gym class with all the other girls? Then as I got older, the questions got harder, but I managed. Why won’t you let me go to second with you? Why won’t you get naked with me? I’ve become a fast talker over the years. It’s actually become a game to me. How can I throw them off the track? I’ve become an expert at distracting people with red herrings.
It’s simple really, I lie. Lying is easy to do, the more you do it. Lies become reality when they are the only truths you want to share. Bonus is, I’m thin and I really am small chested. So I go with the whole Ha, ha, ha…I’m flat chested jokes that everyone has used on me since I was twelve. Funny thing is, I just play into their hand. Guys love making fun of chicks who are flat chested, especially the young guys. It ironically worked in my favor; I was downright grateful for their twisted, mean jokes. They sealed the deal—joke was on them. My shirt never came off. Never not once.
The left side is so melted that I only have half of an areola and a semi-melted nipple that stays flat-ish. My right side is a normal areola and nipple, but the skin around it is torched like crumpled velvet. My chest, belly, and back are all cooked, seared, melted…whatever name makes you feel best works for me. Torched, as in even doctors cringe a little when they look at me. Imagine the warm fuzzies I feel inside over that. They don’t want to cringe—they’re professionals after all—but alas, they are human. I watch their eyes and their mouths twist, and with no words I know exactly what they’re thinking. Mind reader.
My fiancé has never, not once seen me completely naked. There’s a curve ball for you eh? Even he’s convinced I’m to self-conscious about my small tits to show them. My own little scapegoats. I get dressed in the closet or a locked bathroom. Aren’t I elusive. Cagey? A bit. It’s my armor. I wear a skintight burn vest that makes my skin appear smooth under any clothing I have on—that way, if someone touches me when I have on a T-shirt, they think their touching smooth, “normal” skin. Normal is what people like. Normal is what people want to see…and feel. Normal = good.
I wish I could tell you I’m not mortified by this. I can’t feel bad or guilty or anything other than what I feel. I don’t want pity and I don’t want to be stared at. I just want to be me. I don’t want to be know as “the girl with the…” And as hard as I try to be different from others in how I dress and whatnot, I also want to be normal when it comes to nakedness. Everyone wants to be normal naked.
Now, the one person in the world that I share damn near everything with knows that for our entire relationship I have been lying to him. That kind of throws a wrench into things. Part of the reason I never could let myself be with Scout in the boyfriend way is that I knew he would eventually see it. I knew I wouldn’t get away with any sort of lame excuse as to why he couldn’t hold my entire naked body against his. I knew Scout would need all of me inside and out. And sadly, it’s not something I can offer to him. You see my dilemma now, don’t you?
Creed, on the other hand, couldn’t give a shit. He just wants to fuck. Crass, I know. That, however, keeps my secret well hidden. It also keeps the truth of my heart well hidden, if we’re going to get all “deep thoughts” here. Lucky me, he’s never even asked. I told him one time as a warning, I don’t do tit. And that was that. He never went there again. I think he’s more of an ass man, truth be told…and mine is fine.
Once Scout has popped the trim off the door and unlocked it, he slides in a bottle of tequila along with two shot glasses. Then he comes in and stands directly in front of me, one hand snugged deeply into his jeans pocket, the other rubbing his handsome, well-stubbled jaw. His eyes are ice cold and he’s shaking his head at me in disbelief. I’m in my white, oversized, button-down shirt and my panties, sitting on the floor looking up at him as my heart dances around inside a box of glass shards. Needless to say, I’m an emotional wreck.
I do, though, manage to shoot him an evil look. A sneer. He shoots me one back. Then we have a stare down. A pissing war of sorts. It’s not an eye-fuck per se, more of a down-and-dirty glare against glare. It’s a How dare you lie to me? look that he gives me, while mine is more of a Fuck you, you have no idea what I’ve gone through so don’t judge me look. He squats down in front of me, pour two shots of tequila, hands one to me. Then he raises his glass to me.
“Fuck you for not trusting me, Tess.”
“Yeah, fuck you too. It’s wasn’t your business.”
Then we clink glasses and drink. Scout stands up, never for a second taking his eyes off of me. His glare is unflinching, though not unreadable. I’d call the look Chernobyl Pissed. He peels his T-shirt off his thickly muscled shoulders, then whips it into the corner. He’s ripped…beautifully belted with muscles. His skin is a warm honey color that looks good all the time, unlike most guys who look pasty in the winter months. His arms are…well, his arms are the stuff dreams are made of. Nature blessed him with arms that look stolen from the gods. I’ll be honest: I’ve gotten off to the vision of his arms more times than I should be sharing. He carries himself with the confidence of an alpha lion.
My thoughts are all self-indulgent as the show continues. He unbuckles his belt, unzips, and drops ’em, yup. My mind is right there with yours. Jeans at his ankles, boots kicked off, standing in front of me with just black briefs. It’s a pretty sweet distraction even in the oddball moment I’m having. I can’t not look. So I do. I look at all of him, and he still has his eyes on my face. He hooks his fingers in the top band of his briefs, and just like that, they’re down, whipped in the corner with the rest of his shit and all I’m thinking is holy mother of cock. It’s beautiful. As in, bring it over here and I will suck it right this minute beautiful. He’s no shrinking violet, this one, nor is his tool.
“Get a good look—it’s time for you and me to get transparent, sweetheart,” he says in a deadly sexy, low tone. Maybe not intentionally, but he’s naked and his manhood is eye level and seconds from my lips. And no, he’s not smiling or flirting—he’s demanding. This is definitely not how I pictured this night going down.
Naked looks good him. My heartbeat is flying as fast as the snowflakes zipping past the window. Neither of us speaks as he x-rays me with his eyes. He simply stands there and I take all of him in. From his eyes to his arms to that dark little trail of hair that traces deliciously right down to his award-worthy cock.
“Now start talking,” he says crisply as he sits, scooting himself right next to me with an arm around my shoulder, giving me a little squeeze. His face is to me, his lips not four inches from mine, and his gorgeous cock is two inches from my hands. I’m not sure if this is a bare-our-souls moment or a tempt-the-fuck-out-of-me moment. It’s a test of some kind. He smells of tequila and sweat and his barely there cologne. He’s by far my favorite smell in the world, as well as a damn good distraction.
I throw on a mask of a smile and have at it.
“I was five. Playing with Timmy Jackson in his garage. We had matches. The red gasoline tank was up on the shelf, so I just climbed right up there like a little monkey and got it. Most of it tipped onto my sleeveless shirt, soaking me all the way through to my skin, front and back. We went out side to light up our campfire, poured gasoline all over just like I always saw my dad do. Then Timmy and I both lit matches.”
My hands are having their own earthquake, so I pin them between my thighs. The rumble, though, goes straight through me, having a life of its own.
“I was in the ICU for two weeks. Then I spent a month in a burn center. I don’t remember any of it for the most part. Well, just little bits. My folks filled in lots of it over the years.”
Scout grabs my cheeks in his hands. Big tears river down his face as he peppers my lips wit
h kisses, slowly mapping them out all over my face, from my eyelids to my forehead to my nose. Sweet, tender, adoring kisses. Each one filled with a promise I wish to hell I could unwrap and live inside of.
“I love you…you know that,” he says with his lips pressed against my ear. And I know with all my heart he does. But even with all that love he has for me, it’s still not enough that I’ll be able to give him more than just a story.
“Front and back?” He’s nodding as he asks. Thankfully he did not see my front. No man will see my front. Ever. Unless he’s a plastic surgeon, and even that’s hard for me. His fingers hold my chin as he lifts my face, forcing me to look him in the eyes.
“Yeah. Front and back.”
“Does Creed know?”
“God, no. Never will,” I say, nervously chewing my bottom lip.
“He’s never seen your breasts? Never seen you fully naked, Tess?”
“No. Never will.”
He drags both hands down his face, then pulls me into a hug. A devoted, loving, all-encompassing hug that makes my heart sing and crumble. He’s not cringing or walking out or telling me I’m ugly or that I’m a monster or any of the horrid things that kids told me when I was a little tormented child. Those awful things that convinced me when I turned eight to start wearing the burn vests 24/7 and close up shop.
By the time we moved to Echo Mountain when I was ten I had a great shtick that no one questioned. I was able to start over as a “normal” kid. No one stared, made fun, or said anything other than how pretty I was, what a smart girl I was, what a fantastic athlete I was, what cool style I had. I made sure I was the best at absolutely everything I did. I mean the very fucking best. It was all they saw—the teachers, the coaches, the boys, the girls, the parents, the babysitters. That was my superpower, my hero cape. As long as I kept myself undercover I was safe—and normal.
That is, until now. Now I’m naked in front of him, but what’s really amazing about Scout is that he’s naked in front of me, too. It’s a powerfully emotional moment for both of us, not the first but for sure the most intense.
“Let me see you. Take off your shirt. I want to see your beautiful body, Tess—all of you.”
And that makes me cry. Because I wish to hell I could. I wish I could show him my body the way he’s showing me his. But with my cape gone, I have nothing to hide behind. I can’t let him see me like that. It’s too raw, too ugly, and if for one second I saw his lips twist or eyes cringe I would fall straight to hell and die, because I know all that would be going through his mind was how very repulsive I look.
“Scout.” A rage of colorful emotions and seemingly irrational thoughts blind me. He knows I can’t…he won’t make me. He loves me too much to make me hurt in that way.
“You’re beautiful, Tess. There’s nothing about you I don’t love. You can show me and I will still love you. Nothing will change. Do you understand? Nothing, sweetheart.” I feel a quick, sharp sweat break out over my body with the delivery of his words.
“It already has. It’s already changed. You already feel bad for me—you are already pitying me—and that’s why no will ever see me, including you. Because I want to be me for me, not me because of the accident. Not me because I’m some weirdo for people to point at when they see me in a bikini at the beach. The next time I’m sitting in your lap or you’re lying next to me with your clothes on, you’re going be thinking about my skin. I promise you. You’re going be thinking all kinds of things about it instead of what I’d want you to be thinking.”
I hear the sourness in my voice as I admonish him for thoughts I know he’ll have in the future.
“What would you want me to be thinking?” he asks as he grabs my hands, taking my fingers to his mouth. He kisses each one tenderly. My eyes are barely holding tears back, and when I look into his I feel like I’m underwater.
I know it’s a risk, and part of me thinks the path of this conversation is veering toward the cliff’s edge, but I wander deeper…closer, with all reason gone.
“I’d want you to be thinking about how turned on you are unbuttoning my shirt, how you can’t wait to take off my pretty bra and toss it aside to touch my naked skin. How badly you want your lips on my neck, following a trail down to my breasts. How you’d want me lying underneath you, naked, while you look down at me to see how beautiful my body is against yours.” My desperate prayer comes out as a sober reflection of my heart.
“But that will never happen because you will never see me like that, because my body is melted and torched and my breasts are not normal and yes…my skin…it looks like melted ice cream.” Then I’m sobbing in angry waves that are trying to snake up from my throat. I bite my lips shut to keep the noises and pain at bay.
“Goddammit, Tess.” He pulls me onto his lap, straddling him. He holds me, rocks me, sings to me as he always does. Then after a while he pulls the tequila bottle over to us and pours us each a shot.
“Fuck you… Trust me, please.”
“Fuck you… I can’t, not with this.”
And then we both sink the shots back. So he pours each of us another one.
“You bitch, Tess.”
“Don’t call me a bitch. You know…”
We sink those two shots back as well. Now we’re both on the other side of tipsy and I’m so grateful and glad we are. Scout looks into my eyes. Then takes his fingers to my shirt, he opens three buttons from the top down. My collarbone and upper chest are barely exposed, nothing else. My heart feels like a jackhammer but I grip my small tequila buzz with all my might in hopes that I can keep breathing. He looks at my skin, then my eyes, and touches my flesh ever so softly, all the while penetrating my heart with each small stroke.
“Scout…I don’t…oh…”
I barely feel his fingers smoothing over that small patch of skin; it’s pretty numb there. I do, though, feel something. I’m not sure if the sensation is all the nerve endings on my body reacting to him or if it’s really just this tiny spot feeling something new. I’m swallowing hard, my stomach flip-flopping and my eyes stinging like the dickens—but I don’t cry this time.
“Beautiful Tess,” he says, kissing me tenderly on that very spot. Slowly his lips move up my neck and onto my mouth. They feel warm and soft, pillows of wet and sweet. His tongue slides between my lips, moving perfectly over my tongue in a gentle, slow kiss that’s deep, breathy, and erotic. He pulls my hips against him and I feel his hard length between my legs. A faintly amused smile forms on his lips, then a groan rolls up from deep within him as he thrusts up to the crotch of my panties, which are soaked all the way through.
“Tess… I love you my girl. Please trust me…please…”
His hands slowly skate down the front of my shirt until they’re on my breasts. And even in my terrified state, I don’t push him away. I’ve never not once let anyone linger on my chest like this, but I let Scout. I let him touch my breasts as I catch my breath. It’s my Scout, I can trust him. I need to trust him. He’s asking me to. He’s only ever wanted to protect me. My moans and words are suffocated whispers of lust. And even though I have my bra and shirt on, I can feel him touching me through the fabric. I glance from his eyes down to his hands as his thumbs brush over my nipples.
“Oh, Scout, I’ve never…I…” My head falls back as I arch into his awakening touch. He drives a hungry moan into my mouth, fraying me at my seams. It’s amazing and sexy, feeling all of this, though what I can’t believe is that I’m not freaked out completely. He pulls away from my lips and looks deeply into my eyes as if to prove a point. I can’t help but wonder how far he’s willing to go. How far I’m willing to go.
“Okay? You can feel it? Are you okay, sweetheart?” His velvet-edged voice calms me as he continues to touch me. My breathing overflows in disturbingly deep draws as my body floats as if I’m in another universe, as if I’m flying through an open window. I’m seeing, feeling, and craving new light. He doesn’t take his hands off my breasts as he’s looking at my eyes, st
irring something exquisite inside of me. My hunger for him alarms me as his tenderness transports me.
“Scout, I can…it’s…yeah…” My forehead presses against his; I’m desperate for him. The rousing sear of heat between my legs is overwhelming. The feeling of him rubbing my nipples makes my sex throb. I place my hands over his, pushing him hard against my chest, crushing his hands onto me. I never knew, in all these years, I could react at all to someone’s touch. I wish for the life of me I was brave enough to open my shirt to him—but I can’t. I can’t have him see me, see the damage, see what I’ve hidden from him all these years. His hands go to my bottom, his fingers sliding under my panties onto my bare ass. And fuck if it doesn’t feel like the most incredible thing on earth to be doing this with him.
“Tess, Tess. So beautiful. My girl…” he whispers in quiet groans that are rich and all male, his voice sending a current straight down my spine as he grinds me into his thick cock. And oh my God, I just want to slide my panties to the side and let him in. But I don’t…and I know I won’t. I can’t. Because I know what will go along with it. He’ll want me fully naked…and I can’t. And as those very thoughts are going through my mind, I feel him exploring me, pushing hard against my wetness as one finger penetrates me, wrapped in wet lace. A deep, aching moan comes from my throat as I move against his hand, riding it, giving into it, yearning for it. His fingers find the throb of my clit and he teases me terribly, seducing me while another rush of wet falls though my body.
A Mess of Reason Page 9