Page 40 of From Square One

“That’s the problem,” I mutter, scrunching my eyes shut even tighter. “I’ve just started not hating everything about you, so I shouldn’t…”

My sentence sputters away when Aaron begins to massage the curves of my waist.

“Shouldn’t what?” he whispers.

I can’t thread the words together. His breath and the deliberate, slow movement of his palms are scrambling my sense of logic again.

“Over fourteen months, I’ve gradually learned what makes you tick,” he says, equally as softly. “What makes you laugh, cry, roll your eyes, scold me. What makes you feel safe and warm and comfortable. Most importantly, though…”

Aaron’s tongue flicks at the divot behind my ear, and my heart just about lunges out of my mouth. I try wriggling my head away, but he takes my jaw and presses it back against the wall, pinning me.

“I know what riles you up.”

The effect his voice has on me is, frankly, preposterous. Absurd. Ludicrous. Unacceptable. I’m responding without words, my pulse a cry for medical assistance, my skin deep-fried the color crimson, the stiffness melting out of every part of my body. Almost every part.

I don’t know him—I don’t freaking know him. Yet again, my mind and body are perplexingly disjointed to a dizzying degree. Being under his grip, under his eyes…

I hate how right it feels.

“I’ll stop whenever you want,” Aaron breathes, leaving kisses on the curve of my neck, his grip still firm on my jaw, holding me in place. “If this isn’t the distraction from pain that you want, or if it’s too much, tell me. Otherwise I’m going to make you hot and bothered. Is that okay?”

“I already am,” I say, squeezing my useless arms even tighter around his neck, because I’m afraid I’ll let them wander otherwise. “So you don’t need to keep trying.”

I feel Aaron’s grin press against my skin. “You think this is ‘hot and bothered Riley Wilson’?” He closes his teeth under my jawline, and I yelp, my face blistering.

“Don’t just bite me!” I order, to which he nibbles me again, and I make a rabid hissing noise, seizing his hair and giving it an irritated tug. Aaron laughs for the sixteenth time today.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks lightly.

Yes, he should definitely stop. I need to reunite with common sense. Surely, I have more willpower than this. But my resolve is as weak as the rest of my pathetic body. I say, “I want to keep kissing you.” But then my pride gets in the way, so I tack on, “Because I want to find more memories.”

Aaron smirks, my intentions translucent to him. Suddenly, he’s scooping me up under the knees and slinging them around his waist, hoisting my weight into his chest. “Whatever helps you recover your memories,” he says seriously.

“Don’t just pick me up!” I cry out, to which he laughs harder and carries me into my bedroom.

“Sorry. Your legs were getting shaky, and I figured you were sore being pinned to the wall. So…”

He lays me out on my comforter like I’m made of expensive silk.

“I decided I should pin you to your bed instead.”

14

I hate Aaron Beckham after all.

First off, he’s wearing the sturdiest towel in existence, because it stays rooted to his waist despite how enthusiastically he’s moving. Second, even though he just said I could stop him whenever I want, he ignores me.

“Don’t massage my ear like that,” I plead, so he does it harder.

“Stop rubbing my waist,” I snap, so he does it harder.

“Quit doing whatever you want,” I order, so he does whatever he wants harder.

I hate him.

I feel good.

I hate him.