“That bad?” I pry. Aidan’s gaze is locked on my mouth.
He licks his lips. “No, I just think about not coming. It takes every single cell in my body to join in the effort to not come.Sometimes I pray you come. That’s why, when I told you to tell me what you like, it’s actually for me.” A blush crosses his cheeks. “That was the single most amazing feeling in the world, by the way. We can never use a condom again.”
“Selfish, Aidan Mixx,” I counter, my mouth open in mock outrage.
“But I do haveyourbest interests at heart. Don’t forget that.” He sighs. “I don’t want to let you leave. I want to stay inside you all day.”
My eyes flutter closed as I concentrate on our joined bodies. I flex my core, and he jerks one more time inside of me. “I’d like that,” I whisper. He trails a kiss along my dewy neck and ends at the bottom of my ear. “I’d like that very much. But…”
He cuts off the rest of my sentence with a kiss as he grinds his pelvis against my clit. It’s at least thirty seconds of agonizing bliss, knowing it’s the end and I have to leave the throes of our perfect night. When Aidan pulls away from the kiss, he pulls his cock out of my body and lets me slide back down to my feet, panting, gazing at him like a wild animal seeking prey. I want more of him. The need is carnal.
His eyes are narrowed, and his brow furrows as his chest rises and falls up and down. His appearance mirrors my emotions exactly. Down to breaths—his tendons and muscles contracting and flexing, gaze flicking over every inch of my body like a territorial animal.
“You have to go,” he says, voice cracking as he finishes my sentence.
“I do,” I say.
“Then go,” Aidan says, opening his arms wide, an invitation to disobey his halfhearted order.
I steady myself by pushing off the wall. “Come with me,” I reply, taking tentative steps toward his bedroom. He’s stilllooking at me, like that, and I still desire him in every single way imaginable. “Please,” I test.
He smiles, shaking his head. “As if I have an option at this point.”
He picked me up from middle school every Wednesday. When I was eleven, I remember speed walking through the open-air corridor toward the front of the school, excitement coursing through my body because it was the end of the school day and because my grandpa would be waiting. He was always the first in the pickup line, leaning against the side of his burnt orange pickup truck with a cap on, his passenger-side door open—waiting for me. It was the equivalent of a red-carpet welcome, and it made my heart squeeze with love every single week. Grandpa’s face would split into a beatific smile the second I rounded the corner. I never had to guess, I knew that picking me up from school was the very best part of his day. Do you know what that feels like? To be somebody’s best part?
After he’d smile, he’d open his arms and say, “There’s my squeaky-mo! How was your day, kiddo?” I’d hug him from the side, around his big ole belly, and he’d kiss the top of my head as I told him about my day. Grandpa said I squeaked instead of cried when I was a newborn, and he called me that nickname every day. I liked it. It was only mine.
I’d climb into the cab of his truck, and he’d close the door behind me. I’ll always remember the scent. The antique polish and the dusty smell of old things. The back of his truck was always filled with antiques of every shape and size. I’d ask if he found any treasures while he was at yard sales and the fleamarket, and Grandpa would tell me, in detail, about every “super find” he purchased. I listened, intent on every single word, because if he derived that much happiness from his treasures I wanted to learn all I could. As he spoke, he waved at the kids as we passed them walking from school, and he smiled so big and so wide that it made me happy being in his proximity.
When I was eleven I didn’t care, would never think to be embarrassed by his funny words or open affection. His bad heart made sure he didn’t live long enough for that to happen, and a lot of the time I’m happy about that. What would his face look like when he picked up the angry teenage version of me and my face was pointed at the ground, cheeks red? How would he take it when he found out the best part of his day was the worst part of mine? What would he think of all the time I spent ignoring my passion? The devastation of my marriage crumbling would have killed him. The memory of what could have been chokes me as I check out an older gentleman, taking care to wrap the ceramic carefully with newspaper.
“She’s going to love this,” I reaffirm.
He smiles, exposing a section of gums. “Surely she will. I thank ya, Miss Magnolia. You always have the treasures I’m huntin’.”
I thank him for stopping in and link my arm in his to walk him to the door. I watch his back as he hobbles down the street to the nearby florist, and I think of my grandpa some more, wistful and happy that I’ve finally built something out of our shared love for antiques. Finally have a life I love even if it took the whole thing falling apart first.
Aidan clears his throat from behind me. “My competition is looking a little decrepit,” he says, striding from the back room where I had him packaging online orders. It was a killer week, and business is picking up as it always does this time of year.
“He was buying a gift for his wife,” I deadpan. “I’m not into the elderly, although you might fit into that category. Geezer.”
He presses his lips together. “Was that a burn? Did you just try to zing one on me?” He raises one brow, and my stomach flutters. “Am I bringing you to the dark side? Is it fun?”
I roll my eyes—an attempt at outward dismissal. Everything internally loves when he acts cocky and sarcastic. “Are you finished with the orders?” I change the subject.
“I’ve been finished. What else do you have for me?” he asks. “Maybe something wet?”
Shaking my head, I look around and realize the store is clean, everything is ready to be shipped, and I’ve begun plans for the shop window display for Christmas. Aidan helped a bit, and he’s already told me he wants credit for his design skills. “I think it might be time to wrap it up. I’m going to pick up Kendall from school, and you could swing by for dinner in a few hours? If you’re still up for it?”
He folds his arms across his burly chest. “Up for it? When have I never been up for something?”
“Oh my gosh! Stop joking about this. This is a big thing, Aidan.” Spinning away, I bolt the door and flip the sign to Closed. His hands encompass my waist before I can turn.
He leans down and whispers into my ear, “I know it’s serious. I’m sorry. It’s hard being this close to you when we’re alone.”
He smells like the back room. Like polish and dust. Like memories. Tilting my chin up, I meet his devilish gaze. “What’s your best part of the day? The very best part of every day?”
Aidan pulls away but keeps me locked in his arms, his face contemplative. “It’s different depending on the day,” he replies.
