Page 94 of Campus Fake

He stopped in front of me, and his hand came up to cup my jaw, tilting my face toward his. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I haven’t had sex in six weeks.”

A low laugh rumbled through his chest. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I’m fine, Harry. I promise.” I held his gaze. “I mean, I’m a little worried you’ll take one look at my Frankenstein stomach and lose your boner, but other than that I’m great.”

His eyes softened as he pulled me closer against him. “Every inch of you is beautiful. Scars and all.”

He closed the small space between us, kissing me slow at first while his thumb traced my jawline. His mouth moved against mine with a tenderness that made my chest ache. I fisted the front of his shirt and pulled him closer, deepening the kiss until his restraint started to crack. His hand slid from my face to the back of my neck, angling me closer, and I felt the shift in him when the gentleness gave way to hunger.

God, I’d missed this so much. He’d kissed me plenty while I recovered, but he’d been so painfully restrained the whole time I was genuinely starting to worry.

But his restraint was gone as he deepened the kiss and groaned into my mouth. He broke our kiss, and before I could even catch my breath, he swept me into his arms and raced upstairs to his room. He kicked the door shut behind him and sat down on the edge of his bed with me still in his arms. His mouth found mine again as I quickly adjusted so I was straddling him, rocking against his hard length through our pants.

My fingers raked through his hair, and I was already breathing hard, wound tight from weeks of wanting him and not being able to do anything about it.

He pulled his shirt over his head, and I ran my palms over his chest, his abs, all the warm skin I could never get enough of. God, he really was so ridiculously handsome. His hands went to the hem of my shirt, starting to lift it when my body locked up.

I caught his wrists.

He stopped immediately, his eyes searching my face. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.” The words came out too fast. I redirected his hands to my hips and kissed him again, harder, hoping to push past the knot in my chest. His fingers curled against my hip bones, and his mouth responded to mine, but I could feel him paying attention in that maddening way he always did. Reading my body the way only he could.

I angled my torso slightly away from him when his hands drifted upward again, my body once again tensing subtly. Or at least I thought it was subtle until his thumbs stilled on my ribs and he pulled back from the kiss.

“Hey.” His voice was low. “Talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. I just want to keep my shirt on for a bit.”

He didn’t say anything, but his steady gray eyes still saw everything I was trying to hide. Part of me wanted to scream because he always did this. He never pushed, but he also never let me get away with deflecting. He’d simply wait, patient and present, until the walls I put up felt ridiculous even to me.

“It’s ugly, Harry.” The words fell out before I could second-guess them. But if I was going to be honest with anyone about how I felt in my new body, it was him. “The scar, I mean.” My body deflated as I stared at his chest because I could no longer meet his eyes. “It’s long and angry looking and right there in the middle of my stomach. Every time I look at it, I feel like my body doesn’t belong to me anymore.”

Saying it out loud made my eyes sting. I had never been self-conscious about my body. I’d walked around in a bikini without a second thought, undressed in front of men without hesitation, and owned every inch of myself with a confidence that came as naturally as breathing.

But that was before. Now I had six inches of raised pink skin carving an ugly line down my center. Every glance in the mirror now reminded me that my body had been cut open and would never look the same again. I hadn’t even felt comfortable wearing half my wardrobe because most of my tops showed my midriff, which would show my scar.

Harry brushed my hair from my face and lifted my chin until I met his eyes. “Sam, that scar is proof you survived. You’re alive and here with me. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Tears filled my eyes. It couldn’t be that simple.

“Can I see it?” he asked.

My throat constricted. I wanted to say no. I wanted to crack a joke and steer us back to making out so we could skip past this part entirely.

But I’d promised myself I was done hiding from the people I loved, and I trusted Harry to be honest with me about my new reality. I moved off his lap until I was standing in front of him and pulled my shirt over my head.

His gaze dropped to the scar. It ran vertically from below my sternum to just under my navel, pink against my skin because it was still healing.

He lifted his hand and pressed his fingertips to the top of the scar, and then traced it down slowly. His touch was light and so gentle, I held my breath. He followed the entire length of it, his fingers steady and warm against my skin. Then he leaned forward and kissed every inch of it, following the same path his fingers had just taken. A sob caught in my throat.

His gaze met mine again as he kissed the bottom of my scar. “You’re alive because of this scar, which means it’s now one of my favorite parts about you. It’s not ugly at all.”

My breath hitched, and tears blurred my vision for a second before I blinked them away as I slid my fingers into his hair, holding on while he stayed there for a moment, his forehead resting against my stomach, his breath warm on my skin.

“Harry.” My voice cracked on his name.