The Scar and the Touch

The silence in the humid conservatory was heavy, broken only by the furious hammering of the coastal gale against the glass. Alistair didn't put her down. He carried her two steps to the sturdy oak potting table, setting her gently on the edge, stepping between her parted thighs. His six-foot-four frame loomed over her, his breathing turning ragged and deep. For a second, Alistair seemed to remember his scars, turning…