She’d always hated that stinging sensation of the antiseptic on the open wound.Paul got some cotton swabs, then proceeded to hold her wrist and clean her scrape. Ashley winced every time he dabbed, and suddenly Paul had an idea.He leaned his head down and kissed her wound.“Does that make it better?”-Ashley looked at her Art teacher, stunned.Had he really just done what she thought he did?“W-w-what? Wait. What did you just do? And say? Do it again. Say it again.”-Paul looked back at Ashley, even more stunned. He’d actually expected her to be disgusted or flinch or run away. He was just taking a chance.And she wasn’t running away.“I said, does that make it better? Does this make it better?”He kissed her, lingeringly this time, on the lips.-Ashley was absolutely shocked. She put her hands, ignoring the pain, on his toned chest covered by a mere tight tee, pushed him away and spluttered, “Wait a minute! Are you actually saying you.. you.. you like me?! Is that what you’re conveying?”. As I said, he had his hand around my waist, so it was resting on my stomach. Suddenly, I realized his hand was moving. His fingers were lightly tracing some of the scars. I breathed sharply."Does that bother you?" he whispered."No," I said. "It feels funny." I'll stop, then." No, I didn't mean bad funny," I said. And I didn't. As his fingers lightly grazed the scars, my stomach was doing flip-flops like you wouldn't believe. Because he was-- caressing me, is the only word I could come up with. He was caressing my scars. Like you'd caress a dimple or something.It is hard to describe how I felt right then. Content, warm, loved-hell, I was verging on euphoric. Talk about feeling accepted. I knew he didn't mind the scars. Didn't mind! He was touching them! I was a little stunned. I felt it hard to hold the pose-I was supposed to be looking at the class and smiling. I just wanted to close my eyes and drift off on a cloud.Mrs. Taylor had us change poses and I didn't want to move. I just.
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