Page 17 of After All

I hesitate one moment more before I decide to be honest with her. As honest as I can be, anyway. “You’re not the only one who doesn’t quite understand what’s going on tonight, ya know?”

Her gorgeous face crumples in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t even know how to articulate an answer to that question,” I say with a laugh-scoff combination.

She nods in understanding. Commiseration. Whatever it is, she gets it.

The next several minutes are blissfully silent. Somehow I gather she’s not in the right headspace to chat; the thoughts in my own head won’t stop or quiet, so I can’t imagine what’s going on inside of hers.

Chapter 12

Amelie

Carter’s hand on my thigh remains in one place, but there’s no forgetting it’s there. It isn’t heavy in a way that makes me uncomfortable, but it’s evidently present.

Lay your hand on top of his.

Over the course of the minutes that follow that stray thought, it circles back around a second and a third time before my body agrees with my mind, and when I lay my palm on top of his and fold my fingers underneath it, I glance in his direction. It’s dark, but I detect the smile spreading across his face.

He’s really good-looking. Like I think he might be the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. I mean, in person, anyway.

Good grief, I’m rambling in my own head now.

“So, are you headed towards any particular place?”

He shrugs. “I mean, I live this way, but I wasn’t headed there. You insinuated presumption, and I certainly don’t want you to think I’m being disrespectful. You’re a lady. I can tell.”

Good grief, this man’s vocabulary is so freaking sexy.

“What do you mean by that? How can you tell?”

Again with the shrugging. “I don’t know,” he says. “I never like to assume, but I feel like if you’re this averse to touch, you’re probably not falling into bed with guys you just met on a regular basis.”

I laugh full-out at that. Don’t try to cover my mouth or muffle the sound at all. It’s hilarious, but it’s spot-on, too. “Yeah, I think that’s a pretty safe assumption. I’ve never slept with someone I just met. In fact, the handful of times I tried to have sex, I had to get borderline drunk, teetering on the edge of being able to give consent, to even get into a bedroom with a man.”

He’s silent for a little longer than I’d have liked, and my brain goes to the worst case scenario immediately.

“You tried?”

Wait, what? “Huh?”

“You said you tried to have sex. What exactly does that mean?”

“Shit, I said that, didn’t I?” I drop my face into my free hand.

“You did. And I asked, but it’s your prerogative to withhold the answer.”

“I appreciate the out, but I am in your car, at dark, after being strangely okay with you touching me all night, so there’s probably a lot of curiosity about me on your end.”

“Yeah. I’m curious. About lots of things, but you’re fascinating. So, I’m interested in far more than this one thing.”

I tighten my fingers around his hand, and he squeezes back, taking his eyes from the road for a split second to shoot me a sexy smile.

“So, let me clear something up from the start. I haven’t been, and won’t be, diagnosed with any sort of aversion disorder. It isn’t that I’m physically unable or that it causes me pain. My problem — for lack of a better word — is sensory. I have a sensory processing issue that makes most touch feel uncomfortable.

“Like, okay,” I say, turning in my seat to face him as much as I can without unbuckling my seat belt. “You know how a cat hates for you to rub its fur the wrong direction? Or how a sunburn feels the day after when your skin starts to heal and gets tight? Oh, or like those really awful wool sweaters you get for Christmas every year from your Aunt Fern that are warm and cozy, but itchy as hell?”

He nods, rubbing his thumb over my thigh in a hypnotizing pattern. “Yeah, I think I get what you’re saying.”

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