The first time he touched her there she flinched, withdrawing, eager to hide: not from his hand, which she welcomed, but from the flood of memories which seemed resident in that particular spot. Every time she touched it herself, she winced in ambivalence. Now he was here, running his finger along its length; then two fingers, and then three. Always he was gentle: it was an exploration, a voyage of discovery, an adjunct survey of her form. About this he had no complaints, for in his eyes she was flawless. He closed his eyes, feeling the coarser tissue and knowing that it would fade in time. He opened his eyes and saw the dark slash , the hue almost angry against her fair skin. He lowered his lips and kissed it. At this she shuddered, the vibration radiating outward, a wave that momentarily consumed her entire body. He flattened his hand, his large palm covering the scar, and stroked it. His hand moved to her uncovered breast, brushing her skin along the way and raising gooseflesh. She closed her eyes, and he heard her breathing change as she sank into the moment.

Through the open window, the strains of Buffalo Springfield’s “For What It’s Worth” drifted in and he adjusted his pace to match the music. His hand rose from her breast to her shoulder as he stepped around behind her. His arm was now draped around her, crossing in front to limit her freedom of movement. He dropped his free hand to her bottom, cupping her cheek. The hand on her shoulder rose to her face, one long finger moving across her jawline in a mildly threatening caress before the hand arrived at her throat. She moaned as his fingers closed lightly then stroked along her trachea and under her chin. His other arm came around and under hers, touching the scar again, sweeping upward to cup and squeeze her breast.

She could feel his jeans brush against her, the denim rough against her bare skin. She pushed back gently, wanting to feel him, wanting to know that she could elicit some response from him. She felt his erection straining the stiff fabric and rolled her hips to encourage him — it. She gasped when the hand stroking her breast seized her nipple, squeezing and rolling it between thumb and forefinger almost the way someone might crush a cigarette to dust to make a point.

She felt, rather than heard, his low voice in her ear. When he exhaled the words, he excited the hairs in her auditory canal: more than just the hairs, for it sent a shudder through her entire being. His ability to highlight the physical and highly pleasurable connection between disparate organs never stopped surprising her: he could touch her anywhere and make the spot radiate erotic energy throughout her body.

As if he were reading her thoughts, he brushed his arm downward again, first gently kneading her aching breast and then swooping his fingers down to the scar, strumming lightly up and down. She felt herself almost swoon at his touch, at the way his fingers connected with her skin, at the way he could read her mind more easily than the menu in the corner coffee shop. “This,” he said, running his digit along the blemish, “is mine.”

“Yes!” she replied. What he heard was, “Ooooohhhnnn!” as her mouth by now could only form sounds of pleasure, the unintelligible and primal noises of real passion. He smiled at the sound, knowing that he, too, would soon enough be reduced to gutteral intonations. “Yes!” she repeated; but the repetition, like the original, was entirely in her head. “Ooooooohhhhnnnn!”

His fingers danced up and down the scar, even while he pressed himself close behind her. He shed his jeans, wrapped his other arm around her and stroked her sex. Left hand, clitoris; right hand, scar: he alternated for a few minutes, so that the two motions became, in her fevered state, a single sensual swipe. Indistinguishable. Under his spell, in his arms, a strong hard cord connected the two. She felt his cock press against her back, and she pressed back into him — undeterred and, this time, unopposed. With each touch of his right hand on her damaged and imperfect flesh, he could feel her become wetter. He slipped inside her, continuing his left-hand right-hand left-hand right-hand rhythm. He noted, with great pleasure, that her physical response was the same, that her deepening and quickening breath rose and fell identically with each touch.

He adjusted her hips and drove deeper into her, stimulating her G-spot while simultaneously slapping her clitoris and caressing the scar. Through the open window, he could hear Tom Petty. “You don’t know how it feels….” Yes, he thought. Yes, I do. He again adjusted his tempo to match the music. It no longer mattered where he touched her: her nerves had connected just as he wanted them to. She cried out as he thrust into her from behind, deeper and harder. He touched the scar again, thrust again, raised his hand from her clit to her throat and pressed gently before grabbing her hair close to her forehead and pulling her head back, her ear meeting his mouth. His teeth grazed her earlobe, and the harder cartilage of her outer ear. She felt his breath, and his fervor, as he drove into her: now harder, now softer, and then harder again, his thrusts matching — no, not matching, but leading — her own peaks and valleys.

“This is mine,” he repeated, and she felt herself murmuring something in return. He lifted his hand away, and it was as if the pleasure she felt was suddenly withdrawn. He must have sensed it, or else it was exactly what he was getting at: for he quickly put his hand back, fingertips playing along the length of the cut, and she felt her orgasm building again.

He knew she was close, but he wanted her wait. “I can’t!” was her odd cry, reading his thoughts, and he grabbed her hair again, turning her head around to meet his mouth, probing her tongue with his. She sensed how close he was, and did her best to grind back into him, lift and drop her hips so she slid along the length of his cock, coaxing with her body and her mouth, urging him along so that they would arrive together.

Afterwards, when he stroked her scar gently, it thrilled her to know that he alone could touch her in this way, at this one spot on her body. And with that she turned to kiss him fervently, pulling his body into hers again.