She watched him, knock-kneed and flushed, before she sat up and forward. As her palms glided thoughtfully along the lines of his hips and obliques she pressed her mouth to his sternum, tongue sliding past her lips to taste his skin. Scars be damned. It wasn't about accepting them or absolving his past or any of that shit he liked to pile on top of physical gestures, not this time. It was about his body. She liked it and she wanted it and felt, in their present circumstances, she had certain rights of it. She scraped her teeth over the muscles of his abdomen, pressed slow, wet kisses past his belly button, and curled her fingers under the elastic of his shorts, peeling them down and chasing the exposed skin with her mouth.