He urged her up the length of the bed, propping her head on his pillows to make her more comfortable and so he could get a better look at her. Her slender frame, her pert little breasts, no scars anywhere. She really was beautiful. A cursory look farther south, and he saw that she had shaved everything, and he arched an eyebrow. Well, that would explain the suspiciously long shower, he thought.

He looked at her, her form still so tense with her arms pulled to her ribs and her wrists practically glued to her shoulders. She looked at him like he was going to swallow her whole. He smiled sweetly, and went back into kiss her, more gently this time. “Relax,” he whispered between kisses. She didn’t. “It’s just me. Do you want to be with me?”

“Yes.”

He pulled back, studying her. “Are you sure?”

She nodded eagerly.

He drew his hands over her stomach, caressing her skin, feeling its warmth. He felt her breath hitch, and she pushed his hands away from her midsection.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t . . . I didn’t mean . . .”

“It’s okay, I don’t have to touch you anywhere you don’t want to be touched.”

“I do, I do want it, I don’t—”

“Don’t what?”

Her eyes glassed over, the whites tinged with pink. Now it wasn’t nervousness in her expression, or even fear, but sadness. Unmistakable sadness. “I don’t want to be like this.”

Then it connected, what she’d told him. He tore me in half . . . He ripped me apart . . . He skewered me, ripped my guts out. This was a trauma response. A confusing mix of guilt and arousal flooded his system, the sense that she was categorically not okay combined with a powerful urge to make it better, a powerful sense that he could make it better.

“We can work up to that, there’s no rush.”

She half opened her mouth, perhaps to insist that he could touch her anywhere he wanted, including her stomach, because that’s what a normal, un-traumatized person would do, but he covered her mouth with his before she could say anything. He kissed her for a while longer, holding her close until the ice around her melted a bit, and she began to relax. He took his time, getting her used to his touch and taste and smell. Eventually, his fingers found their way down between her thighs. Well, her body is certainly eager, he thought. And if the mind is willing . . .

Somewhere between his disrobing and positioning himself between her legs, she had iced back up again. He continued to go slowly, but when he tried to enter her, every muscle in her body drew tight, and he held back when her face contorted in pain.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m trying, I’m trying.”