Page 49 of Eight Weeks
Even though I’d love to spend some more time in bed, regretting my life choices, I do end up getting up to put on some more presentable clothes. I refuse to go downstairs in shorts and a tank top. Not with Leon around.
I only get to pull my shirt over my head half-way before I freeze to the sound of my bedroom door opening. To make matters worse, I don’t even seewhojust entered my room thanks to my shirt being around the same height of my head, but I do know they have a splendid view on my boobs right now. A second later, the door closes, but I just know someone is still in the room with me. Someone most definitely being Aaron.
He just tends to have great timing when it comes to seeing my goddamn boobs. Start to think they’re some fucking magnet field for his eyes.
“My, my, Icicle. If you wanted me to fuck you, you just had to say the word,” Aaron jests. I’m about to drop the shirt back down my body when two hands touch my arms, stopping me. “Sofia…” His voice is low, breathy. His hands move to my shirt, pulling it right over my head and arms before he tosses it over into my hamper.
Aaron’s eyes meet mine, pupils dilated and filled with lust that he tries to blink away. As soon as my arms sink to my sides, I contemplate on covering myself up but then conclude that it’s useless as he has seen my boobs already anyway, so why hide them?
After a little while his eyes follow down my neck, settling on my boobs. His gaze burning my skin. If I didn’t know it’s physically impossible to burn skin using one’s eyes, I’d be convinced Aaron is leaving some third-degree burn scars on my body.
“Do you have a breast fetish?” I ask at the same time as his hands grasp my waist and he pulls me closer into his body. “I mean, you do so happen to like looking at them.”
“Generally, no. For yours, definitely.”
Oh, okay.
His hands on my waist slide up until his thumbs brush the underside of my boobs. While Aaron is too busy ogling my breasts, I use the opportunity to ogle him, take mental images of his face to savor them until I die.
Why does he have to be so goddamn handsome?
His hair seems to be fluffy, a dream come true for my hands. Long and voluminous. His skin a tad too light but suiting to his freckles and light leaf green eyes. His lips far too kissable for my liking, but enough to make me crave them on mine. Aaron’s jaw is chiseled, defined like I’ve had yet to see one. And the dimple on his right side whenever he smiles… I could die looking at him.
A shiver runs down my spine when one of his thumbs brushes over my skin ever so softly, it might as well be a brush of air.
His eyebrows dip into a frown—nothing mad but confused, maybe? A frown of interest? “What does it mean?”
What does what mean? His touch? The fuck do I know. I’d say it means he’s interested in my body. What does it mean that I let him touch me? I’m sure it means I’m just as interested in his… and I don’t seem to have enough strength in me to fight it right now.
“The tattoo, Sofia,” he chuckles, clearly having noticed my inner conflict. “What does it mean?”
Oh. The tattoo. I totally forgot I had it.
Suddenly, I really miss my shirt, or any shirt. Even a blanket around my torso would do.
Finally, I manage to step back from Aaron, walking over to my closet to find a shirt to wear. Without looking at Aaron again, I speak. “It just says‘breathe’. It doesn’t have a meaning.” Only that I have crippling anxiety and need to be reminded that it’s okay to take a break every now and then.
“I think it does. But alright, if you don’t want to tell me yet, I won’t make you.”
Oh lord, why does he have to respect me this much? Or anyone for that matter? Couldn’t he be a total asshole? Being an asshole would certainly make hating him less difficult.
Imagine he wouldn’t give a shit about what I wanted, how I felt. How differently I would think if he weren’t still the sweet guy, he was at the age of eight, loving to tease but respectful. Only now does he also know how to tease me in ways that has not only my head smoking in anger, but also make my body act like a complete fucking traitor.
Once I’m wearing a hoodie and exchanged my shorts for some black leggings, I allow myself to turn around again, finding Aaron standing by my dresser. He must be looking at the pictures, wondering why I have them here and why I would frame them and put them up.
My words are my worst enemy. I keep saying the kiss Aaron and I shared meant nothing, that him and I could never work… and yet I have pictures of us when we were younger standing on my dresser like some fucking shrine. It’s kind of like my own personal temple, or so people could think if they looked at it.
Suddenly I’m glad I threw in pictures of my closest friends here in Germany as well. Only like two, but that’s better than none, considering that there must be threeframedones of Aaron and me alone, then approximately six other ones of Lily, him and I hanging on the wall somewhere between all the other ones. The other ones being six in total, at most.
“See anything interesting?” I ask, figuring that I have to say something.
“I talked to your mom.” Aaron turns around, now holding a bouquet of fucking flowers in his hands. Or so I assume. They’re covered with an extra sheet of white wrapping paper.Where the hell did he get those from anyway? “She saidyouwanted to stay here.”
The ultimate betrayal.
“I like it here.” I do. I hated living in the center of Munich. Big crowds and everything being so busy wasn’t my thing. But then we moved here, into this small village. Everyone knows the other, the people are kind and always there for one if needed. They’re like one big family and I loved the closeness. I never felt uncomfortable here, never had to worry about random men groping me when I walk alone at night, because word would get around quicker than anything.
If one of the villagers hate you, you’re doomed. Your entire family is doomed, actually.
