His laugh is husky and sensual. “Baby, the only thigh gap I care about is that there’s enough room for my face when your thighs are spread.”
I can feel the flush creeping up my neck and into my cheeks.
“Have you always felt this way about your body?” he asks.
“I mean, just since puberty.” My laugh is humorless as I remember back to those days. Then I rest my head on his chest so I don’t have to look him in the eye as I say, “As a kid, I was already used to being bigger, but that also meant I was faster, and stronger, and a much better athlete. By the time we all hitseventh or eighth grade, those things started mattering less for girls and more for boys. All my friends were focused on fashion, makeup, and having the perfect body.”
Not that I’d tell Aidan this, but puberty is also when my mom’s behavior toward me began to change. As I became more full-figured and my breasts and hips developed, giving me an hourglass figure, my mom became more and more critical. Now that I’m an adult, I can see how my mom projected her own body insecurities onto me. At the time, it just felt like I was a disappointment. Is it really a surprise that I grew into a people pleaser?
He presses his lips to my forehead. “Teenage girls care about the stupidest shit.”
“Maybe, but you also have no idea how hard it was to be a size eleven, when all my friends were a size three or five. My friends’ favorite pastime was going to the mall. Watching them pull cute crop tops or super short skirts off the rack and knowing I’d never be able to pull off something like that with my body... it was just hard.”
“I get that. But you do realize that the size of your clothing has absolutely no bearing on who you are, your value, or what’s really important in life, right?”
“Objectively, yes. But after a lifetime of being toldYou have such a pretty faceorMaybe you should hit the gym a bit more?—”
His hands grasp my shoulders as he steps back slightly so he can study my face. “Who the fuck told you to hit the gym more?”
Now that I’m not tucked into his chest, this whole conversation has me feeling much more exposed and vulnerable. I look away rather than answering.
“Your mother?” His words are ground out through clenched teeth.
“Among others,” I say before looking back at him. “And yes, I know that the size of my clothing is the least important thing about me, but it’s hard to undo decades of growing up in a society that tells women certain bodies are more desirable and then treats them differently if they don’t fit that mold. I don’t blame my mom for repeating learned behavior.”
“You don’t repeat learned behavior if you know it’s wrong,” he insists. “Which means your mom obviously buys into that shit.”
No doubt she does. But don’t we all, to some extent? Even when we know it’s wrong, even when we’re trying to undo the stigma of not being thin, we’re constantly having to remind ourselves that bodies come in all shapes and sizes and that one size isn’t better than another.
“I have no idea what it’s like to be a woman looking at other women and judging them for their size,” Aidan continues, “but I can tell you this, as a man: there’s nothing you need to change about your body. Your curves are delicious.” He slides his hands from my shoulders, down my arms, grazing the sides of my breasts with his palms as he does. A shiver runs through my body, and then he’s running his hands along my waist and settling them on the curve of my hips. “I literally can’t look at you without getting hard.”
I shake my head as I look up at him, and a knowing smile spreads across my face. It’s not just the way he affirms my body both in and out of the bedroom, it’s the way it feels like he’s revealing small pieces of himself each time he does. For someone who claims he’s not good at emotions, he has a natural way of showing that he cares. Not that he cares about me likethat.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks.
“Because . . . you continue to surprise me.”
“What fun would it be if I was predictable?” He presses a quick kiss to my nose as the waffle timer beeps and he turns to walk around the island. I take a seat at the counter and he slides a plate over to me, next to the butter and syrup he’s already set out. Then, moving over to the coffee pot, he asks, “Milk and sugar, right?”
“How’d you know that?”
“I got you coffee in Bermuda, remember?”
“Yeah, but how’d you know that’s how I’d take my coffee in the first place?” At the time, I needed caffeine so badly it didn’t occur to me that it might be more than a coincidence that he got my coffee order exactly right.
“Lucky guess. I actually got two that morning, one black and one with milk and sugar, figuring those were the two most likely options.”
“So you normally take yours black?” I ask and then watch as he pours milk into both mugs.
“I hate black coffee.” He drops a couple teaspoons of sugar into both cups, gives them a stir, and turns to hand me mine.
So he gave me the coffee we both preferred that morning in Bermuda, and drank the black coffee instead. It’s not a huge sacrifice, but I think it says something about the kind of person he is. Or, maybe I’m reading too much into it?
“Honest question,” I say, taking the mug from him in both hands and then dipping my head to breathe in the scent. “Do you always make breakfast the next morning when you’re keeping things casual?”
“Sure,” he says with a shrug, but the creases at the edges of his eyes match how tight his voice is, and I’m not sure what to make of that.
“And cuddling after sex?”
