“You smell like vanilla cupcakes.” My voice is muffled as I press my nose against his bare chest.

Ever since he told me he loved me, he’s been getting better with being touched. But he still trembles sometimes, and when things get really hot and heavy, we have to stop before he veers toward a panic attack. Right now, he’s extremely calm, though, at least for him, so I’m going to savor this moment for as long as he’ll allow it to continue.

He tangles his fingers through my hair. “That’s because Fiona sprayed me with some girly perfume crap this morning. She used so much of it that it soaked through my shirt.”

I laugh, nuzzling closer to him. “Really? Why’d she do that? Just to torture you?”

“She said I needed to sweeten up. That I was acting too grumpy and sour.”

“Why were you acting grumpy?” I cross my fingers that he’ll open up and tell me.

“I don’t know . . . I think I’m just stressed and have been taking it out on everyone.”

I inch to the side so I can set my palm on his chest and feel the rhythm of his heart. “Stressed out about the therapy?”

His heart slams against my palm. “I’m stressed out about a lot of things.”

I angle my head back and look up at him. “But right now, you’re worried about the therapy.”

“Are you trying to play therapist?” he teases even though his pulse is still racing.

“Maybe.” I push up, straddling him, and my pulse accelerates as his gaze drinks in my chest. “I just know how you are . . . that you shut down sometimes and don’t talk about your feelings. What you’re doing Monday is super huge, and I just want you to know that you can talk to me, and hopefully, I can help make you feel a little less nervous.” I sweep my hair to the side and flash him a grin. “Making people feel better is one of my many talents.”

“And just how are you planning on making me feel better?” he asks, grazing his fingers across my breasts.

Like every other time he touches me, butterflies lose their mind inside my stomach. “Well, I wasn’t planning on doing that, but if that’s what you want then . . .” I trail off as I lower my lips to his. “I’ll give it to you.”

A husky moan escapes his mouth as I suck on his bottom lip. He cups the back of my head and draws me closer, sliding his tongue into my mouth. My body doesn’t feel like it’s under my control anymore as I rock my hips against his. He groans, but stiffens. I know he wants to do this just as much as I do—I can feel his hardness through his jeans. But wanting and having are two different things with Ayden, and I wait for him to stop us, like he usually does.

But after counting under his breath, he kisses me more fiercely as he grinds his hips against mine. He repeats the movement over and over again, moaning and gripping onto my waist. My hips move rhythmically with his as I lose myself in him. My hands drift down his chest and to the top of his jeans. I want to touch him like he touches me.

Touch him, touch him, all over.

Never let him go.

I wait for him to stop me and when he doesn’t, I undo the button of his jeans. His stomach muscles tense, but he continues kissing me. With a nervous breath, I dip my hands inside his boxers.

He groans something incoherent about trusting me as his body trembles. I worry I’ve pushed him too far, but then he seals his lips to mine and kisses me so forcefully I swear I’m going to have a bruise. I fall blindly into the moment, part of me wishing I never had to return. That I could just stay this way, him and I in this perfect place where he lets me touch him.

If only I could hold on forever.

Hold onto him forever.

He’s come too far

Just to fall all over again.

I can’t lose him.

The fear is always there in the back of my mind that therapy is going to change him, remind him why he has such a difficult time letting people touch him.

What if I lose him?

“You’re not going to lose me,” he breathes raggedly as he blinks up at me, his eyes glossy, like he’s high from our kisses.

“Did I say that aloud?” I sound breathless. “Sorry, I thought I was talking to myself in my head.”

He chuckles. “You know that makes you sound kind of crazy.”

“Good for me you already love me,” I tease. “Crazy or not, you’re stuck with me now.”

“That’s perfectly okay with me,” he says. “Just as long as . . . as long as you’re okay with being stuck with me.”

I don’t answer with words. I answer with a kiss.