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She struggled to sit up, trying to remember how to use her arms and legs.

“I’m not a man, Mary, even though parts of me look like one. What you just had is nothing compared to what I want to do to you. I want my head between your legs so I can lick you until you scream my name. Then I want to mount you like an animal and look into your eyes as I come inside of you. And after that? I want to take you every way there is. I want to do you from behind. I want to screw you standing up, against the wall. I want you to sit on my hips and ride me until I can’t breathe.” His stare was level, brutal in its honesty. “Except none of that’s going to happen. If I felt you less, it would be different, easier. But you do something weird to my body, so totally controlled is the only way I can be with you. Otherwise I’m liable to lose it, and the last thing I want to do is scare the hell out of you. Or worse, hurt you.”

Visions swam in her head, visions of everything he had described, and her body wept anew for him. He took a deep breath and growled softly, like he’d caught the scent of her sex and relished it.

“Oh, Mary. Will you let me pleasure you? Will you let me take that sweet arousal of yours where it wants to go?”

She wanted to say yes, but the logistics of what he was suggesting hit her hard: getting naked, in front of him, in the candlelight. No one but doctors and nurses knew what had been left behind on her body after the disease had retreated. And she couldn’t help thinking of those sexy women she’d seen come on to him.

“I’m not what you’re used to,” she said softly. “I’m not…beautiful.” He frowned, but she shook her head. “Trust me on this one.”

Rhage prowled over to her, those shoulders rolling like a lion’s. “Let me show you how beautiful you are. Nicely. Slowly. Nothing rough. I’ll be a perfect gentleman, I promise.”

His lips parted and she caught a glance of the tips of his fangs. Then his mouth was on hers and, God, he was fantastic, all drugging sweeps of lips and tongue. With a moan, she wound her arms around his neck, digging her fingers into his scalp.

As he laid her down on the floor, she braced herself for his weight. Instead he stretched out next to her and smoothed her hair back.

“Slowly,” he murmured. “Gently.”

He kissed her again, and it was a while before his long fingers went to the bottom of her T-shirt. As he pushed the thing up, she tried to concentrate on what he was doing to her mouth, forcing herself not to think about what he was revealing. But when he tugged the fabric over her head, cool air hit her breasts. She brought her hands up to cover them and closed her eyes, praying it was dark enough so he couldn’t see much of her.

A fingertip brushed the base of her neck, where her tracheotomy scar was. Then it lingered on the puckered spots on her chest where catheters had been plugged in. He pulled down the waistband of her pajama bottoms until all the punch holes in her stomach from the feeding tubes were revealed. Then he found the insertion site for her bone-marrow transplant on her hip.

She couldn’t stand it any longer. She sat up and grabbed for the shirt to shield herself.

“Oh, no, Mary. Don’t stop this.” He captured her hands and kissed them. Then he tugged at the shirt. “Won’t you let me look at you?”

She turned her head away as he took her cover from her. Her bare breasts rose and fell as his eyes took her in.

Then Rhage kissed each and every scar.

She trembled no matter how much she tried to hold still. Her body had been pumped full of poison. Left with holes and scars and rough spots. Rendered infertile. And here was this beautiful man worshiping it as if everything she had borne was worthy of reverence.

When he looked up and smiled at her, she burst into tears. The sobs came out hard as punches, tearing at her chest and throat, squeezing her ribs. She covered her face with her hands, wishing she had the strength to go into another room.

While she cried, Rhage held her against his chest, cradling