Page 3

The man wasthatgood-looking. It was a genuine question. There was a very real possibility women paid good money for this man to fuck them senseless.
So that's a third thing we could add to my list of requirements to break my dry spell: a working dick, not a murderer, and not a gigolo.
That's a solid list.
I waited for his response with bated breath.
Finally, Beck threw back his head and released a rumbling laugh, his deep voice rattling his chest. Tears sprung in his eyes.
I swiped them away, wanting to soak up as much of this time with him as possible before sending him on his way, because again, gigolos were not on my list. A noble profession, if done consensually. Just not for me. “Sooo, yes?”
He winked. “I'm a doctor, remember?”
I pointed at his face. “You did that little wink there, and it undermines everything you said after that.”
Beck captured my hands and glanced down. His thumb rubbed against my inner wrist. “What's this?”
I didn’t need to look down to know exactly what he was asking about. The soft spot between my palm and my wrist was home to a “c” shaped scar. It had been there since I was seven when I’d accidentally tugged the cord of my grandma’s ancient curling iron, only to have it fall on my arm, leaving behind a permanent mark.
I used my free hand to cover it as I shared the story with him.
His brows furrowed. “Did it hurt?”
“Yes. I sobbed so hard I gave myself a headache. My grandma felt terrible, so she sent my grandpa out to get us both Dairy Queen sundaes. That's when I learned I could cry and get ice cream. Gotta love a silver lining.”
“And you have a badass scar.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, that's definitely what mattered to seven-year-old Luna.”
He smirked. “No doubt.”
Beck squeezed my hand one more time before letting go, breaking that physical connection.
But I couldn'tnottouch him. I poked him gently in his firm chest. “Now that you know my scar, I want one of yours.”
He splayed a hand in front of him. “There are so many to choose from.”
My eyes darted to his bare skin, searching for hints of scars. I used the opportunity to run my fingers down his tattoo-covered arm, mesmerized by the intricate patterns I found there. “Did you cover any—” I gasped, my fingers finding the mark.
If I didn't know better.
“Is that a gunshot wound?” My voice was barely a whisper.
He nodded solemnly. “I got that one in Afghanistan while trying to evacuate a hospital from enemy fire.”
“Did it hurt?” I asked, my lungs seizing as my finger glided over the spot that he’d covered in intricate waves that reminded me of a famous Japanese artist. The design was dizzying. Gorgeous and rough. Rugged.
“Yes.”
“Did you cry?”
His thumb reached out and swiped a thumb across my lips. “I cried like a baby.”
My head tilted into his palm, like a cat seeking comfort. “Brave of you to admit it.”
“Men shouldn't be afraid to show pain or feelings. Shouldn't be afraid to be human.” He sounded like he meant it.
How might our world look different—look better and safer—if men were strong enough to show their emotions, to let them breathe? “I couldn't agree more.”