Her gaze tracked back to that shaving soap and razor. She’d never stopped to consider it before, but it must be astoundingly difficult for him to shave around his scars. Yet he did so anyway, every day. Every evening, too, come to think of it. When he suckled her breasts or settled between her thighs—her skin heated at the memories—she never felt the scrape of whiskers against her skin. Did he go to all that trouble just for her? The thought was deeply stirring. She felt her body softening in unconnected places. The corners of her mouth. Her knees. Her heart.
