Page 75 of You Spin Me

“Don’t do that.” Gripping both feet, I squeeze until she meets my gaze.

“Do what?”

“Minimize your pain.”

Her lips flatten. “My corns and bunions and dead toenails have nothing on your scars.”

“It’s not a competition.”

“It isn’t?”

“If it was, you’d lose, princess.”

She scrubs her palms over her face. “I know; I’m sorry.”

“Jess, I mean it. It’s—it’s good. I know I want to be skin to skin with you”—she peeks at me between fingers, and I raise one of her feet as evidence—“but we have a lot of scars between us. And, I guess…”

Since I can’t seem to find the next word, I flop back to stare at the ceiling, hoping something might be written there that’ll express what I want to say. What I’m afraid to say. That I’m half in love with her already, and I’m terrified of fucking this up and losing her. Of scaring her away.

No words on the ceiling, but two little feet find their way between my thighs while I’m looking for them.

“What’re you up to, missy?”

When I tickle her feet, she doesn’t even flinch. So I haul her over to my lap. A delicate moan hums behind her lips. A not-so-delicate groan crosses mine. When I try to stop her wiggling by wrapping my arms around her, she drops her head on my shoulder with a sigh.

My heart pounds heavily in my chest, but I’m not exactly sure what it’s afraid of. Her compact body feels like it belongs right where it is, and I don’t ever want her to leave the protection of my arms. I’m wishing I knew how to move forward—what to do next that will let her know I want her without rushing things—when her thumb trails across my goatee. Pausing at the transition from the area on my chin where I can grow a beard to the scarred skin where the hair won’t grow, she asks, “Can you feel that?”

“I can, but connections are spotty around the plastic surgery.” Covering her hand with mine, I press it into the ridges. “A firmer touch feels better than a glide.

“Got it,” she whispers as she explores, fingertips kneading in and over the tightly pulled skin from cheekbone to jawbone.

My eyelids droop and tension drains from my shoulders. Her touch doesn’t pry, doesn’t poke, nor does it pity. It… cares.

When her fingers get close to my ear, I cover her hand with mine again and pull her palm to my lips to kiss it.

Turning my head as far as I can to the right—which isn’t far since my range of motion is limited—I point to a place behind my ear where I can’t stand to be touched, the place I have to remind the barber about every time I get a hair cut. “If you can avoid this spot—there; it’s kind of like when you’re driving out of range of a radio station. The sensation goes in and out. Drives me crazy.”

She nods, but I cup her cheek with my palm and brush my thumb over her bottom lip. “It’s a lot, I know.”

Her mouth curves slightly as she drags her lips against my thumbnail, a simple movement that lights up all my nerve endings. In a good way.

And yet. Itisa lot. And even though I want to be inside her more than I’ve ever wanted anything, rushing hasn’t worked for me in the past. If I’m not completely ready, things fall apart quick.

Still, her hand is warm on my left cheek, and her lips soft on my right hand. I think I might be ready to go further, when she yawns.

“I’m sorry,” she groans over another yawn.

“No, I’m sorry,” I say over a yawn of my own. “We’ve both been up since…”

“Seven.”

“Yikes. It’s after three now, so that’s like…”

“I know. I’m too tired for math too.”

That’s it, then. Scooping her into my arms, I carry her to the bathroom door. “You do what you need to do, I’ll take Blondie out one last time, and I’ll meet you back in my bed.”

When she opens her mouth like she’s about to argue, another yawn takes over her face, so she smiles again. “Okay.”

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