Absentmindedly, I bring my hand over my chest, tracing the contours of my breasts as I picture his reaction to me. He hadn't been unaffected, and the knowledge fills me with something akin to anticipation—for what, I don't know.
I could tell that my behavior had shocked him. The fact that I hadn't cowered in front of him when he'd had me at my most vulnerable—at my most bare—had surprised him.
What he doesn't know, though, is that it had surprised me too.
It's been close to two years since the fire, yet no one has seen my scars.
No one has seen my naked body—even if partially.
It had been a source of embarrassment and I'd been too self-conscious about it to even strip in front of a woman. Save for the nurses who'd taken care of me when I'd been incapacitated, there had been no one else.
Until him.
And yet, I hadn't reacted as I thought I would. I hadn't run away, crying in mortification.
I'd been humiliated, yes. But I'd also been determined to not show him my weakness. And as I stood proudly in front of him, unbothered whether he was staring at my breasts or not, I'd felt a different sort of rush go through me.
Adrenaline. Pleasure. Delight.
It had felt like the beginning of an addiction. Seeing the shift in his gaze, the alternation between hate and lust had done something to me.