Theo sucks in a startled breath. Wide-eyed, he stares down at me, his gaze raking over my naked breasts. He’s frozen, unwilling or unable to move, so I take matters into my own hands and grip the hem of his wet shirt. I pull it up and over his head, pulling it past his chin, yanking harder when his hands get caught in the sleeves. The shirt and towel tumble to the floor.
Then he’s standing bare-chested in front of me, his eyes incandescent like some nocturnal animal’s, silvery bright in the dark.
I place my hands on his chest. With my fingertips, I trace his scars, the snarls and puckers of flesh, his roadmap of ancient trauma. Suzanne guessed right: he was burned, and badly. The left side of his body from shoulder to hip is a testament to the accident that stole his speech.
But to me,
