I haven’t shaved.
I don’t want him to see my jiggly bits.
I have cellulite dimples on my arse, not the cute kind.
My boobs are closer to my belly button than my chin without abra.
In that moment, I feel a surge of insecurity and vulnerability, as if all my flaws are on display for him to see. I pull away, avoiding his touch and forcing a smile.
“Ok,” Aiden steps back as if reading my thoughts. “I’ll go first, but I’m going to warn you, I’m a grower, not a shower.” He boops me on the nose. “So don’t fucking laugh.”
I do just that, grateful for him interrupting my self-deprecating thoughts.
He makes quick work of his boxers, tossing them aside. Aiden steps toe to toe with me, his eyes locked onto mine. “Don’t hide from me, Katie.” His fingers tug at the edge of my shirt, gently urging me to let go of my insecurities. I blow out a breath, lift my arms, and let the shirt fall to the ground.
Aiden’s lips tug into a soft smile as he takes in the soft curves of my body. He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead, whispering, “You’re beautiful, Katie.” I feel him at the band of pyjama bottoms, his fingers begin to slowly slide them down my hips. He drops to his knees in front of me, removing the last barrier between us.
His eyes lock on my Medusa tattoo, and his nostrils flare. He reaches out and traces the intricate design with his fingertips, and my spine snaps ramrod straight. You can no longer see my scars thanks to Cillian’s handiwork, but you can still feel the weight of my past etched into my skin.
Aiden releases a breath, his head pressing against my stomach as he takes in the sight of my tattoo. The intensity in his gaze tells me that he understands the significance behind it, and a sense of vulnerability washes over me.
He’s going to run.
They always run.
Maybe it’s for the best. He can leave before I get any more attached. But as I prepare myself for the inevitable rejection, Aiden surprises me by gently placing a kiss on my tattoo. “Who hurt you, baby?”
Nope. Not ready for this conversation. My windpipe is already constricting.
I try to swallow the lump in my throat, desperately searching for a way to divert the conversation. Aiden’s question lingers in the air, begging for an answer that I’m not ready to give. “Who didn’t.”
Please, someone just glue my mouth shut.
He stays on his knees, his gaze fixed on the tattoo as if he wants to burn its image into his memory. His lips find the largest scar, hidden under one of the snakes coiled around the rose. “I told you my dad died when I was sixteen.” His hot breath whispers against my skin.
Aiden pushes himself up off the ground, his gaze still locked onto the tattoo. “What I didn’t tell you is that,” his eyes flit to mine. “I killed him.”
I know what he’s doing; he’s opening up to me in the hopes that I’ll trust him enough with my own secrets. What I cannot figure out is why he would tell me something so personal; we barely know each other. Is he trying to manipulate me, or is he genuinely seeking a connection?
He must take my silence for horror because he continues to speak, his voice wavering slightly. “He was an addict. He’d get shitfaced and disappear for days, even weeks, on end, and when he did show up, he’d end up kicking the shite out of me, Robbie, or my mother.”
“I can imagine.” I really can. It happened to me with both my parents. I know what it’s like to grow up in a volatile andabusive environment.
I don’t even notice him leading me to the shower; one minute we’re in the middle of my bathroom, and the next we’re standing under warm water.
“He fractured my mam’s eye socket and broke her arm two days after my sixteenth birthday.” His hands are in my hair as he gently massages shampoo into my scalp. “He disappeared for a few days and came back half-tanked about a week later. Mam was sleeping; the painkillers knocked her out, she didn’t hear him coming home. Robbie was at a sleepover.” He brushes the suds out of my hair and rinses it thoroughly. “I heard him coming and wanted none of it. So, I met him at the top of the stairs. He threw me down, and I tumbled to the bottom.” He gives me a warm grin as he reaches for the conditioner. “It didn’t take me long to get back up. I didn’t feel the pain; I was too angry. I jumped for him, using the banister as leverage, and pulled him back by the scruff of the neck. He fell like a sack of shit and broke his neck on impact.”
I reach out, wrapping my arms around his waist and holding him tightly. “And you never told anyone?”
“Éabha knows,” he admits. “She was there when it happened.” He runs the conditioner through my hair gently, his touch soothing and comforting. “We didn’t say anything; it was written off as an accident, and we decided to keep it that way.” He smirks, adding, “I got the nickname “Quiver” in school because I was jittery as fuck for weeks afterwards.” His eyes flick to mine, looking for any signs of fear or judgement. “You must think I’m a monster.”
“No,” I whisper. “I think I understand better than most.”
He snorts, “You never killed one of your parents, Katie.”
“No,” I admit, “but I know what it’s like to want to.”
His smirk fades, his bright eyes darkening as he looks into my eyes for as long as I can force myself to hold his gaze. “Did they hurt you?”
