Tangled Like Us (Like Us 4)

“Jane.”

Don’t close your robe. I command myself. My breathing comes out in a weird panicked wave. This has never happened. Not once in all the times I’ve been with a guy. And I know what’s causing it. I do.

“Jane, please talk to me,” Thatcher says, worry cinching his voice. He actually raises it above a whisper, risking it.

I take a measured breath. “So you may have noticed that I have stretch marks,” I say briskly, trying to spit this out. “And I’ve never felt the need to explain them to any of my past friends-with-benefits. They didn’t need to know why I have a freckle on my butt cheek any more than why I have stretch marks on my belly.” I keep going, barely a pause. “But you’re different. I actually care what you think of me.” Because I really, really like him. More than I’ve ever liked anyone before.

I continue quickly, “And before you say anything, I just need to get this out.” I take a deeper breath and straighten my shoulders. “When I was nineteen…” I stop there because suddenly my eyes begin to water. Pressure wells on my chest. The opening to this story is like digging up a painful insecurity I’d long ago buried.

Shitshitshit.

“Jane,” he whispers. “You don’t have to say a fucking word, if you don’t want to. I like all of you. Every part.” He frowns. “Goddammit.” He curses under his breath and then shakes his head. “I’m really fucking sorry, if I ever gave you the impression that I didn’t.”

“No.” I balk. “You haven’t. Not once. This is just a sudden, old insecurity come to wreak havoc on me. I thought I’d put it to bed. Honest. It’s me.”

He looks deeper into me and then past me and his eyes narrow into blazed pinpoints. “If it wasn’t me—” He looks murderous.

I grab at the waistband to his pants. He nears again, his palms on my thighs. “You can’t fight them,” I say into a soft smile. His willingness to slay my enemies and any foe that has ever hurt me is so very attractive.

“I can. Physically, I can.” His muscles are pulled into taut bands. I have no doubt, he could destroy most men.

“I wish you could,” I rephrase. “But they’re long gone, and others are just nameless, faceless humans sitting behind a computer.” I take a breath and continue on, ready to explain. “When I was nineteen, I gained twenty pounds really quickly. Practically overnight it felt like. And out of the blue, these showed up. I lost some of the weight, but the marks are here to stay.”

I touch my belly where the white stretch marks have been for years. Though, they started out puffy and red. My weight has always fluctuated between ten and twenty pounds, and anything I gain goes directly to my hips and belly. I’m not plus-sized or curvy in all the right places. I’m not skinny. I’m not fat. I’m an odd in-between, a size that the media hardly ever shows. In the end, I consider myself chubby.

“When I noticed them forming, I was at Princeton,” I explain to Thatcher. “Alone. My best friend was miles away, and I had barely anyone to talk to. So I went to the internet. Which—was a massive oversight. Because all I could find were women talking about how they take pride in their mommy stretch marks. They’re badges of honor. And they are . But the more and more I searched for people to make me feel better about mine, all I could find were horrible, demeaning blog posts and comments in forums. They called them permanent, everlasting reminders of a mistake . Then they continued on explaining how it should be a wake-up call to a lifestyle change.” I shake my head. “Those were the last words I should have read at the time.” All I wanted was for someone to reach out of the computer and give me a hug.

To tell me that I’m beautiful. And that I never made a mistake. That my body is mine. And it’s unique. And it happened to say you’re going to get stretch marks this month. But that’s okay. Because it loves you. You love it.

And really that’s all that matters.

And I did eventually hear all of those things.

When I went home and my mom hugged me and told them to me.

In the bathroom, Thatcher still looks like he could go into a computer and commit murder. “Please tell me you didn’t take those shitbags’ advice.”

“I almost did,” I say. “I started a diet and forced myself into a gym every day for two weeks. But I was so unhappy. I don’t like working out to lose weight. Now I only exercise when I know it’ll make me happy.”

It’s not every day. Sometimes I go for months without it. I do what feels right. It’s how I’ve learned to love myself despite what other people think.

“I admire that about you,” he says outright. I almost think I hear him wrong, or it was a slip up. That he was just thinking it in his head. But he keeps going. “You do things that make you happy. That’s hard for some people.”

“Is it hard for you?” I wonder.

He stares into me like he’s thinking about something in particular. “Sometimes.”

I’m about to ask for more details, but his hands rise back to my soft hips. “Jane.” He looks at me with a level of seriousness that steals my breath. “I love your stretch marks.”

He says as plainly and definitively as he said I love your breasts earlier.

I smile.

“I love your lips,” I tell him. “They are quite soft and kissable.”

Light reaches his eyes. “I love your freckles.”

“I love your ears.” They’re prominent when he tucks his hair behind them. They frame his face very well.

He leans in closer, our mouths a breath apart. “I love your thighs.” His hands dip down between them. His lips on mine. Our tongues caress in a frenzied, hot kiss.

I only part to breath out, “I love your throat.”

He’s a heartbeat away from a laugh.

“It’s very…” I run a finger down his Adam’s apple, sending chills down my own arms. “I love it.”

He nods like he’s taking in this fact. “Well, I love your armpits.” He lifts me up under them and sets me on the ground. We continue complimenting each other. Loving different things. Clothes are shed until I’m disrobed and bare and his pants are in a heap on the ground.

We’re breath and limbs and I’ve found myself straddling him on the bathroom floor. His shoulders rest against the glass of the closed shower door.

Breathless and panting, I’m in between a kiss, when he whispers against my ear, “Christ, you’re beautiful.”

Those words sting my eyes for a second.

I usually don’t need to hear those words to feel them. Especially from a man. But sometimes, it’s so very nice to have it reaffirmed. It feels so wonderfully good to be called beautiful. Especially from him.

I return the kiss deeper and harder and then break away to reach for the condom package on the ground. He grabs the bottle of lube as I rip open the foil.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” I whisper. “You’ve had fingers or other things in your ass before? I wasn’t your first?” He seems to be far too comfortable letting me back there. Unfortunately for someone who likes butts, like me, not many guys are.

He leans up to put a kiss on my lips and take the condom from me. “Fingers, yeah.” He rolls the condom on his length. “Other things, yeah.” He rubs lube along his erection and then holds out the bottle to me. Our eyes catch. I’m a little frozen.

“Other things,” I repeat.

“Toys, very small,” he says. “Here.” He rubs lube on my fingers

and then reaches for a towel so he can dry his off. Just so he can clutch the back of my head without getting it in my hair.

My brain is spinning with excitement and possibilities. “Do you have a prostate massager with you?” I ask.

“In my bedroom. Another night.” He kisses outside my lips. “Was I your first? I couldn’t tell.”

“You couldn’t?” I frown.

He shakes his head. “You’re good with your fingers, but you were really curious.” He looks me up and down, taking in my reaction. “I wasn’t your first, then.”

I nod and then his own fingers slide up between my legs. To check to see how aroused I am. He does that a lot. I realize because he’s so big that he really doesn’t want to hurt me. He’s very well attuned to his body.

And he’s been adeptly learning mine.

Our mouths meet again, and while we kiss, he slowly slides himself into me. His lips are beside my ear. “Remember go slow at first.”

I learned that the hard way the first time I was on top with him. Overeager, I tried to take him completely in me way too fast, and he bottomed out. There was more pain than pleasure, and he spent most of the night concerned and going so slow it was like riding a torturous edge.

My knees dig into the fuzzy bath rug, and Thatcher grips the bottoms of my thighs as I start to move up and down on him. Everything throbs and aches for more and more and more. Like I’m finding the right switch on my body.

I move a little faster.

“Jane. Fuck,” he says almost under his breath. Still trying to be quiet.

He stifles a deeper groan, so much so, that I can feel the noise rumble through his body. Up against mine.

“God ,” I say in a heavy breath and then lay a palm flat on his chest. It’s slick with sweat. Still sitting against the shower door, he bucks up into me, his length sinking deeper.

Oh God.

I’m already clenching around him. Legs trembling. Earth splitting feelings pinching me with pleasure.

“Jesus,” he breathes, still awed at how sensitive I am under his touch. It makes staying on top of him difficult because I get tender fast. But I try because I adore this position.