I’m still panting when I hear the rustle of clothing hitting the floor and the crinkling of foil. I’m still shaking when he takes my thighs in his palms and pulls me to him so my legs cradle his hips. He brushes the hair from my face and kisses my tears with lips coated with my scent.

“Why are you crying, Bunny?”

“Because . . .”

“Did I hurt you? Did I do something wrong?” He’s pulling away from me so I clutch his forearms and lock my ankles around his waist. He’s mine now. He’ll never get away.

“No. Never. You did everything right.”

I kiss him deep enough to smother every doubt, every fear. And when he pushes inside me, stretching and breaking the tender flesh that was once surgically mended, I cry out. Not because of the pain, both physical and emotional. But because I knew that I would love this man until my dying day. This man who was making me bleed as he made love to me. This man whose agony was slow and sweet and sensual, and just what I had always imagined it would be. He was slicing me open and repairing all the damage, all the wrong. He was making me pretty and neat and shiny again.

I became the good doctor’s greatest accomplishment. His little Frankenstein. What was once a monstrosity has been given new life.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers against my lips. “God, you feel so good. I love you, Heidi.”

I kiss him so hard it bruises my lips and let the tears slide down the sides of my face. He wipes away every single one, his languid strokes not hindered in the least. If anything, he reaches deeper, pushing through the barriers of my heart and body until there’s enough room for him to dwell forever. I thought it would hurt me, more than just the initial tearing. I was so convinced that I would never find joy in intimacy again, that I had just wanted to get it over with, so I could accept it and move on. But I was wrong. Tucker’s body is therapy to mine. There’s a stiff soreness at first, but even that feels good. And after those muscles have grown warm and loose, all that exists is pleasure. So much of it that my knees shake to the point that he has to grip my thighs as he delves farther and farther into never-ending wetness. It goes on forever, slicker with every thrust. It’s just me.

He waits until I come before he allows himself to let go inside the warm safety of my body. Even with the latex separating us, he fills me up. But it’s not enough. Not enough to make me complete. I need more of him.

“Next time,” I pant, my breath ruffling his sweat slickened locks, “no condom. I hate that there’s something between us.”

He lifts his face from the soft pillows of my breasts and looks down at me. A single bead of sweat slides down his nose and lands on my chest. I even want that inside. I want his everything. Maybe that’ll make me whole again.

“But what about . . . ?” He doesn’t want to offend me, so I do it for him.

“I had a full, mandatory workup since the last time to ensure that bastard didn’t give me anything. But what he did leave me with is scarring so bad that I will never conceive naturally. So you don’t have to worry about me.”

My tone is so cool and matter-of-fact that he flinches. I can see the concern etched in his face, but I can’t return it. There’s nothing to be upset over. This is my life, this is who I am. My rapist took away my ability to have children. I’ll be damned if I let him take away anything else.

I pull Tucker’s face to mine and kiss him, licking the seam of his tentative lips. He reluctantly opens for me, and within seconds, he’s growing hard inside me again. With all my might, I push at his shoulders so he rolls to his back, taking me with him so my knees are on either side of him. I look down at the place where we are fused and back up to his worried expression.

“It’s ok,” I assure him. “I want this. I want all of you.”

He closes his eyes when he nods, unable to look at me. I don’t know if he’s ashamed of me, or himself. But I still lift my body from his to scoot down his legs.

Tonight I saw a man up close for the first time. And now I’m seeing what a man can do to me . . . to my body. Tight latex hugs Tucker’s semi-erect penis, glistening with pink blood and my slick, milky release. I’m all over him, from base to tip. But not really. Underneath that thin barrier, he’s free of me. He’s as clean and pristine as he always is. The urge to make him dirty with me is overwhelming, and I pull off the sullied condom and toss it to the floor, revealing his thick, long, swollen erection, painted only with his seed. I take him in my mouth, desperate to taste him. Desperate to take all I can from him. He twitches against the back of my throat, and I moan. The image of it choking me, of him choking me, disturbs and excites me all at the same time.

Wetness coats my thighs, and I reach back to feel it on my fingers, but it’s not nearly enough to give me what I need. The friction, the fullness. The pain. I need it so badly. It’s the only thing that can heal me.

I position myself over his saliva-slickened cock and slowly impale myself until I can’t take anymore. Until his dark brown curls fuse with my short, blonde ones. Until I can’t tell where my body ends and where his begins.

Tucker looks up at me like I am a goddess and my body is his only religion. For twenty minutes, I let him worship me with his hands and tongue and praise. And when pressure collects inside that little knot inside me that urges me to take him harder, faster, deeper, I bless him with an orgasm so intense that neither one of us can move, let alone talk. We can barely even breathe.

He kisses the top of my head, murmuring words of adoration and amazement. Telling me how happy I’ve made him, and how he only wants to do the same for me . . . forever. I turn into his chest and inhale the scent of his sweat, and I resist the urge to lap up every salty drop. I tamp down the desire to bite his humid flesh, to rake my fingernails over his skin until it blisters with tiny droplets of blood. And in turn, he would flip me over and fuck me like a wild dog, punish me for my transgression until I cry from the brutality. I’d trade all his sweet nothings and replace them with vile slurs said in a frenzy of violent passion. He’d spank my bare ass as he fucked me until my skin was bright pink and burning with his handprints. He would pull my hair until my scalp stung with red-hot needles. And just before I found sweet relief in all the pain, he’d grasp my throat until I came so hard that I’d lose consciousness.

That scares me. I scare me. Because if he knew what I really wanted, what would really make me lose myself in a haze of pleasure, he would realize just how sick and wrong I am. And he’s worked so hard to make me right again.

I can be good for him. Whatever I’m feeling, whatever I am . . . it’s just a phase or remnants of PTSD. It’s not the real me. It’s not what I really want. What I want is Tucker—sweet, safe, stable Tucker. And dammit, he wants me. And I’d be damned if I lose him over imagined affliction inside my twisted mind.

I prop my chin on my hands and look down into sky blue eyes, and smile. He smiles back, causing those too-full lips to fall into a smile too pretty for any man to possess. And I know right then and there, exactly what I want. And what I will always desire from this gorgeous man that has taken the scattered pieces of me and put me back together into something more beautiful than it was before.

Love me.

Hate me.

Chapter Fourteen

N OW

It’s the middle of the night when I realize I’m not alone. There’s someone stalking in the shadows of my pitch-black bedroom. Someone watching me sleep, counting each inhale and exhale. Admiring the way the moonlight casts tattooed ghosts on my hauntingly pale skin. Breathing in the scent of my naked sex, still slick with a salacious dream.