Page 18 of Off-Limits Mate

Being near her every day is absolute torture, but the plus side is that it makes me feel alive. And I fucking love it.

Today’s a big day. We’re at the point of moving Amara’s stuff back into the house, and while some of her furniture definitely had too much damage to put back, some of it was in her friend’s garage. The friend still isn’t home, but we loaded all of it into my truck (which I cleaned first, since I didn’t want Amara’s stuff to get muddy), and now we’re moving it slowly into her place.

It's kind of… domestic.

The other day when she told me that I just hadn’t tried anything domestic yet, I kind of wrote that comment off. Now, though, I agree. If I can learn how to lay tile, maybe I can learn how to do this kind of stuff, too.

The only person I’d want to be domestic with is Amara, though.

I snort. The thought is always present in my mind, lately. The idea that this kind of day-to-day joy could be mine, if I was with her, is just a fucking fantasy. I could never have this with Amara. Maybe with someone else, but never with her. And I’d do well to remember that.

I catch Amara’s eye as I walk past her in the living room. “Anything left in there?”

She nods. “Some boxes of stuff to go into the bedroom, if you don’t mind.”

The fact that she just asks me to grab stuff for her bedroom is absolutely going to spark another raging hard-on, so I don’t respond. I just pivot. I walk out to the truck, grab the two boxes that are in there, and walk inside.

I make it the whole way into the bedroom, and I’m about to place them on the ground when my elbow hits a dresser that she must have moved while I was doing something else. The lid of the top box falls off, and I can see the contents.

I know I shouldn’t look. I mean, there could be really personal stuff in here. Stuff like…

You need to not think of Amara using a sex toy, idiot.

Yeah. Well. It’s too late now.

Gently, because if I slam this box against my already hard cock, I’m going to hurt myself. I set the boxes down. I glance down into the top box, ready to put the lid back on.

However, there’s a picture in there that catches my attention.

I sit on her bed and grab it. It’s a picture of the three of us. Amara is probably thirteen, looking sullen and awkward, and Nolan and I are seventeen. We all look like kids. I guess because we were.

There are more pictures underneath. I tug them out, glancing through them with a smile. Here’s one of us trying to get Amara to go back-to-school shopping. And one of us on some four-wheelers that the pack rented. And…

“What are you doing?”

I look up at where Amara’s standing in the door. “Sorry. The lid fell off.”

“Um. Okay. Don’t look at any more,” she says awkwardly.

I frown. “Why? These are all great. What else you got in here?”

Amara’s eyes widen as I reach for the next stack of papers. Her lips form a little shocked ‘o,’ and I pull out the paper underneath…

When I look down, I see why.

For a minute, there’s silence as I study the picture. It’s my senior picture. I was a kid without parents, but the safety net of the pack makes sure we don’t miss out on experiences like that. However, I don’t remember getting a glossy eight-by-ten print of my picture.

It’s clear that someone did. And that someone also doodled on it.

There are little hearts around the edge of the picture. Dozens of them. Hearts, little swirls, and if I lean closer…

“No. No, please don’t,” Amara protests weakly.

Ignoring her, I lean forward, scrutinizing the picture. Yup.

“Mrs. Amara Rayburn,” I say, reading the words that are spelled out in very detailed, scrolling calligraphy around the edges. “Okay, there are a whole lot of those.”

“Yeah,” she says weakly.

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