Page 35 of Aim for Love

“No kidding. I wanted to be a coffee shop owner.”

“Like Dorothy?”

“Yes, exactly like Dorothy. Then I learned about profit margins and overhead. And discovered having a cat in your cafe is a health violation and giving away food is taking money out of your own pocket.”

He laughs. “Was that your vision? A cat and giveaways?”

“That’s how Barbie always did it.” I grin back at him. “She always had time for other hobbies, somehow, too.”

“So you became a paralegal instead?”

“Yeah.” I feel defensive, even though Hunter’s question wasn’t particularly probing. He’s tracing his fingers up and down my torso, making my insides turn to water. “It’s stable and didn’t take much extra school.”

“And do you have time for hobbies?”

“What hobbies. I don’t have hobbies.” My hobbies are brunch on Sundays and sleeping as late as I possibly can. My life back home is boring in the worst way: it lacks inspiration.

“Well, now you do. You have to keep up your axe-throwing.”

I imagine inviting my friends in Denver to go axe-throwing. They’d go once, I’m sure. Mostly to drink and post on social media that they were there. No one would take it as seriously as Hunter does. “Yeah.” I sigh.

“Where did your mind go just then?” Hunter asks, brushing his fingertip down my hairline. “You looked all sad.”

Of course he noticed. I can’t say, “I’m going to miss you.” So I reply, “I was thinking about dreams. And goals. And how I don’t really have any as an adult.”

He shakes his head. He carefully moves more hair off my face, laying each strand gently on the pillow beside my head as if each piece has nerves. “That’s not true. When you wake up in the morning, how do you want to feel?”

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and think about my first thought when I usually open them. I usually wake to an alarm and the tension of knowing I have to get up and accomplish so much before I go sit at my desk for the rest of the day. “At peace,” I say finally.

“I read a book once that said happiness is making decisions that align the most with your values. Being at peace might be the same as happiness, defined that way.”

Opening my eyes, I imagine Hunter’s face being the first thing I see in the morning and what that would feel like. “Huh. What do you want when you first wake up in the morning?”

He smiles. “Other than breakfast?”

Shoving him a little without actually pushing off me, I protest, “Hey, we were having a serious moment!”

“Yeah, I know. But I think I want the same thing. I mean, I want adventure. I also want to come back to my room and be able to open a book and disappear into it. I want to know there’s a peaceful space waiting for me at the end of the day.”

A vision comes to me of Hunter curled up at the end of a day with a book—maybe after showering, the ends of his hair still wet—and me snuggling up against him, his nook my pillow. I squirm a little, burrowing into the picture.

“You cold?” he asks, and starts to pull the blanket up around me.

“No, just ticklish,” I answer, which of course leads to him tickling me in earnest. I hope the house is still empty, because my giggling gets loud.

The feeling of Hunter above me is so intoxicating—on top of already being a little tipsy from this night—I forget to keep laughing and nuzzle into his skin. He slides his body down mine, rumpling my clothes, and starts unbuttoning my pants.

“You don’t have to…” I begin, expecting little resistance to my out.

“Are you kidding?” he says. “I’m exploring.”

I put my hand back down on the bed. “I support your adventures.”

“Yes. That’s something I like about you.” He smiles up at me. And I can’t believe I somehow found myself the adventure this man wants to go on.

Then he dives in, touching his lips to parts of me that have been neglected by most of the men I’ve slept with before. It’s not popular anymore, this heady dive into a woman’s core. At least according to brunch conversations with friends.

Hunter makes it exactly what he said: an exploration, his tongue reaching deep inside me, his lips running up my center. My job is to let him map the inside of me. To open for his probing fingers, to respond to the gentle scrape of his face against my thigh. He feasts, learning every inch of me wringing out all the pleasure. No man has ever made me feel so wanted, like I’m the air he needs to breathe.

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