Raveling You(28)

“Then don’t,” I say frankly. “When I told you that you could tell me anything, I meant it.”



He contemplates what I’ve said. “It was because of all the touching we’ve been doing.” His voice is barely audible and crammed with apprehension.



“Oh.” My shoulders sink along with my mouth. “I get it.”



He abruptly slams to a halt, grabbing my arm and stopping me with him. “No, you don’t get it.” Panic floods his eyes. “I want to touch you. I think about it all the time… Have ever since that day in your dad’s office when I…”



I can’t see his cheeks, but I can picture how red they are, like every time he talks about something sexual.



“When you got turned on,” I calmly finish for him.



On the inside, I’m a wreck.



All the way back then,



His heart danced for me,



Spun a longing for my soul



And sought the taste and feel of me.



All this time, all this time, all this time,



He wanted me.



He bobs his head up and down. “You’re the first girl who ever made me feel that way.”



“The first that’s ever turned you on?” I ask, astonished.



I’ve often wondered how sexually experienced he is, if he’s still a virgin. The first time I met him, he was wearing all black along with a leather collar, gauges in his ears, and he was sporting black nail polish. I assumed back then that, because of his rough appearance, he was experienced. Then I actually got to know him and discovered how much he hated being touched, and I questioned my initial assumption. I still don’t know for sure, since he never offers to talk about his past.



“You’re the first girl I’ve ever wanted to turn me on.” He chokes up, his hand on my arm trembles, and his fingers dig into the fabric of my jacket. “It’s not the first time I’ve ever been turned on… just the first time where I wasn’t… being forced…” His voice cracks.



His comment rolls over me like a vicious wave. What he’s trying to say without actually saying it. That he thinks he’s been sexually abused.



The reality of how harsh his life has been knocks the wind out of me. Why hadn’t I thought of this before? With the way he hates being touched.



“Ayden, I…” I’m speechless, unsure what to say to him and freaking terrified I’ll say the wrong thing.



“I don’t know if anything actually happened to me in that house. All I know is that, at fourteen-years-old, I went into that house feeling okay with being touched. But, when I came out of the house…” He skims a finger along my jawline. “Sometimes, something as simple as a handshake can make me feel like I’m going to throw up. But I’m working it, working on getting better,” he whispers, sounding more as if he’s trying to convince himself than me.



My lips part as I prepare to ask him how he’s working on it, but then his lips come down on my mouth. I stumble back from the unexpected contact and grab onto him to stop from falling. My fingers grasp his shirt, and I end up pulling him back with me. Losing our balance, we slam against the fence, but our lips remain fused together, even when Ayden moans.



“I’m trying,” he whispers through kisses. His tongue tangles with mine as his hands find my waist and he pulls me toward him in desperation. “I want to be able to kiss you like you deserve to be kissed.”



I have no clue what he’s talking about, because I am being kissed like I deserve.



This kiss, it makes my body pulsate.



Makes flames blaze under my skin.



Steals my breath from my lungs.



But it’s not really stealing



When I’m giving the air to him.



Willingly giving him anything he wants.



Just say the word, Ayden, and it’s yours.



My heart.



My soul.



Whatever you want.



“Ayden,” I gasp into his mouth as his body starts to quiver, “it’s okay. I’m fine with how things are. And I love our kisses.”



He abruptly pulls away, his solid chest heaving as he struggles for oxygen. “No, it’s not… okay… nothing is.” He avoids looking at me, staring at the corner of the street. The Christmas lights reflect in his eyes, making it appear as if he’s tearing up. “You deserve so much better than some guy who can’t even touch you.”



“You can touch me.” I grab his hand, lace our fingers together, and pull him. I refuse to let him go. Ever. “See.”



His gaze drops to our linked hands. “It’s not the same as if you were with someone else who didn’t have so many problems.”