Page 67 of From Square One

He’s given it a lot of thought. Maybe discovering that he’s planned a future for us after a year of dating should be concerning, but I’m mostly stirred from the fact that he sees one with me at all. “You’ll need a room just for the wooden ducks to live in,” I say.

“I’ll build one.”

I smile skeptically. He eases down, allowing part of his weight to lean against me.

“What about your next ten years?” he asks softly.

I try to envision it. Last month, I would’ve said I’d have a computer science degree and be making big money in cybersecurity or something. I’d be living in a house close enough to my parents that I could be nearby to help when needed.

Is that what I really want, though?

“I hope I’m living somewhere quiet,” I murmur. “In a big house with a lot of wood and windows, where the sun rises in the bedroom and sets in the living room. It has a big couch I could cuddle with a cat on. Or my boyfriend. Someone who will take me to all my bucket list museums in Chicago and listen to me talk about dull things. Someone who cooks me dinner if I’m too tired and gives me massages if he’s not busy and whittles me wooden ducks until he gets bored of it. He lets me fall asleep on him in the bathtub and doesn’t harass me about it later. I’m financially stable and my body is stronger.”

It’s difficult to resist his stare when he’s inches from me, his dark hair tickling my forehead. The tips of his black lashes are glittering. “I’ll make it happen,” he whispers. “Because I want to. Because I love you.”

My lip shivers, so I chomp down on it. “Thank you,” I say quietly. “For bothering to love me.”

He kisses the tremor away. When his hands rise along my rib cage, pushing up the edges of my crewneck so it bunches around my chest, a familiar self-consciousness settles over me. I don’t want him to see.

But he’s staring at me like I’m unblemished marble.

Reluctantly, I allow him to slide the crewneck off, exposing my upper half fully. He takes me in for a moment, like he’s never seen my thin skin and poke-y rib cage before, then nestles down into the crook of my neck, kissing me slowly beneath my ear. I’m not sure how a sensation can be both cozy and stimulating, but it is. The longer his lips linger, the safer I feel, and the quicker my heart thrums.

I find the top button of his shirt and fumble with it, my apprehension heightening. I spend ten seconds on it before Aaron’s hands come up over mine, guiding them through the motion. The first button pops. The second. The third. Soon, they’re all undone, and by then, his mouth is at the hollow of my throat, which he works lightly with his tongue. The feeling is too much, so I scrunch my hands into the bedspread, trying to center myself.

“You can touch, you know,” Aaron says. “And—by the way—I like when you scratch, so don’t think it’s a problem.”

The blood in my head and neck boils hot. “Why would I scratch you?” I squeak.

“You get overstimulated quickly. You use your stubby nails to deal with it.”

I grind my jaw. “I won’t hurt you.”

“I’m telling you it’s okay. I like it.” He pauses to unfurl my fists in the bedspread, which I’ve been clinging to for dear life, and pulls up, spreading my hands beneath the edges of his open shirt. Instinctively, I push the sides back, and it flutters off his shoulders, sliding down his arms and off his wrists. “See? Not so hard, right?” he asks with a knowing wink.

I grimace, my hands rooted on his warm, solid collarbone. I’m not sure why today feels different, or why the thought of touching him freely is more intimidating than before. Maybe because I knew there were limits I wasn’t willing to pass. Mental boundaries. Today, though, I only have one.

“I don’t want to do the insertion stuff,” I blurt.

Aaron lifts his head and blinks at me. My face steams hotter.

“Sorry,” I choke out. “I just. Um. I’m not sure how often we do that, but I…I don’t think I’m prepared for that…mentally or physically…”

“It’s okay,” Aaron says with a small, understanding smile that eases my sudden tension. “That type of sex is rare for us, anyway.”

“It is?” My eyes widen. “Why?”

He shrugs. “You’re a nervous person.”

“So?”

“So you tend to get in your head about things.”

“Like what?”

“You often worry you’re not going to…do a good job,” he says, picking his words carefully. “Or that something might go wrong bodily function–wise. You usually initiate it, but when it starts happening, you have a hard time relaxing. Knowing you’re struggling to get comfortable turns me off, so we don’t always go all the way.”

“I initiate?” I ask faintly. “Does that mean you don’t like it?”