Page 21 of From Square One

My body isn’t reacting like I’m in danger.

I should be squirming with discomfort. Is it possible part of my mind recognizes that this situation is familiar? That Aaron is familiar?

My temple throbs with enough power to make me wince. Aaron’s hand is still over my mouth, firm, tight, but I’m standing. My fingertips are dragging against rough wood, and his teeth are sharp but gentle around my earlobe.

Shh. Do you want them to know you’re here?

I blink, and the moment folds away, but it was a moment. A memory! I squirm again, and Aaron must sense the urgency, because he draws away and peels his hand off my mouth. “What’s wrong?” he asks, stepping back when I lunge off the bed.

“I remembered something,” I blurt out.

Aaron stops in his tracks. I hear him exhale faintly—shaky, violent—before he’s closing the distance and nestling his warm palms on my shoulders. “It worked?” he asks. His eyes are glazed with tears, sparkling the way fresh snow does on a suburban lawn. “Tell me.”

“I think we were hiding somewhere,” I admit, uncomfortably aware of his fingertips grazing my neck. “There was a wooden door in front of me. Your hand was over my mouth, and you were telling me to be quiet or I’d get caught.”

Aaron rakes his memories in silence. Eventually, he murmurs, “My closet.”

“Your what?”

His grin returns suspiciously quickly. I guess he’s back to being amused at my expense. “My dads grounded me, so you weren’t allowed over. You came anyway because they were supposed to be at an all-day repair job. But they stopped home in the middle of the day for lunch, so you hid in my closet.”

“But you were in there with me,” I protest, lamenting that I disrespected his parents like that.

“Yes, I joined you eventually. We were in the middle of something when my dads came home, which left you in a predicament. I felt bad, so while they were eating, I joined you to…well.” He clears his throat. “Help?”

Scarlet heat explodes through my body, and I actually cry out with rage, then slam my palms into his chest and shove. He catches them and draws me closer, his smile like sugary candy.

“What did you think we were doing?” he asks, kissing my fingertips as I try valiantly to hide my face in my shoulder. “In what other situation would I tell you to keep it down while hiding?”

“I don’t know!” I snap, wanting to melt onto my knees. “I’d never let you do something like that while your dads were home!”

“Oh, but you see, love,” Aaron says, thumbs kneading the pale skin of my wrists, “you’re forgetting my horrible, no good, very bad influence on your delicate maiden spirit.”

I wrench out of Aaron’s grip, then collapse onto my knees, seize the pillow on the floor, shove my face into it, and groan while he laughs at my misery. I can’t believe this. I have more willpower than to just allow him to do what he wants, right? Unless…

You’re a fucking doormat who can’t put your foot down.

I scowl into the fluff. Right. Aaron is naggy, persistent, and I was the carpet under his shoes. It’s my fault for letting things escalate to that point. Maybe I should let these memories rot in oblivion so I don’t have to confront my mistakes. But if I want to keep myself from repeating these lapses in judgment, shouldn’t being aware of them be the first step to correcting them? Running away without acknowledging everything I did wrong is just continuing the cycle of selfishness.

I won’t stop here just because I’m uncomfortable.

“Okay, fine, whatever,” I say shortly, muscling back to my feet. It takes more strength than I realize—I’m exhausted beyond repair, my joints and bones aching, my hands losing warmth the longer I go without Aaron’s grip. I wish my body would hurry up and fully heal so these irritating issues can go back to being background noise. Still present (always present) but less difficult to bury with distractions. “We’re offtrack. Let’s get back into position.”

I lie on the mattress and yank Aaron to where he was before—his knee leaning on the comforter between my legs, his hand sealing my mouth. Once it’s secured, I cross my wrists over my head and give him an approving nod so he can take them.

If the words utterly bamboozled had a face, it would be Aaron’s. He’s staring at me like I just asked him to rail me here and now, his mouth parted comedically. He clears his throat and leans over me, reclaiming his grip around my arms, fastening them to the comforter.

“Okay, so, I told you it was me,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “What happened next?”

I consider the options, but I’m not sure how I escaped this situation if not by licking or biting his hand. I’m not strong enough to squirm out of his grip. I give him a clueless look, to which he smirks, and says, “Left leg.”

My eyes slide down to observe. It’s resting flat on the bed between his braced thighs.

“Think,” he encourages. “Someone crawled through your window in the middle of the night. Even if you know that person is me, you’re still operating on instinct. So…”

My eyes widen with understanding. I try to protest, but Aaron’s palm presses more firmly into my lips, silencing me.

“Go ahead,” he says, like his manhood isn’t in imminent danger.