Olivia Jameson stood in front of the bathroom mirror, her bathrobe open, gazing at her chest and stomach. She ran her slim hand over her scars, trying not to flinch. She hated touching them, but her therapist Francine was encouraging her to do so. It was supposed to be healing and empowering – assuming that Olivia could start to accept them.
Not yet. Not yet, I can’t. Living with them and tolerating them… that’s not accepting them.
It was funny, how she didn’t mind much when Dallas touched the angry red lines, but she dreaded touching them herself. Olivia knew that when he looked at her, all he saw was a strong, smart, beautiful woman, ugly scars and all. Since the attack, Dallas had kissed and run his tongue over every inch of her flesh, and she’d loved every second of him doing it.
I
