Page 47 of All of You

“Sure, no problem. Are you dressing first?” she said, her side-eye at my sweat pants speaking for her.

“Of course.”

I left the bathroom and moved to the bedroom where I pulled on the dress, the satin lining cool against my skin. Damon had swung by an hour ago and done my hair in long, romantic waves, my typical style for events and anything other than a casual concert.

“Good?” I asked, back in the bathroom where Amanda was organizing her supplies.

Her expression told me everything. “He’s a goner.”

With that, I made my way to Ben’s door. It was cracked, so I spoke softly. “Ben?”

“I’m just shaving. Almost ready—come in,” came his voice from the bathroom.

I smoothed down the dark green velvet of my dress. The sweetheart neck with off-shoulder cap sleeves was more than a little flattering, and the dress showed off every curve and dip of this body I worked so hard for. It was going on my list of favorites, for sure.

I pushed through the door and took a minute to appreciate how tidy Ben’s room was. He hadn’t spread out everywhere, maybe out of habit, maybe just because he knew we were leaving in the morning. He had a book on his nightstand, a charging cord, and his bag sat with the lid resting open against the wall on a bag stand.

I walked into the bright lights of the bathroom, prepared to tell him I was ready to get the kiss over with so we could appease the press and move on from this idiocy, and then, I saw him.

More like, I was stunned by the visual brilliance of him in front of me.

He leaned over the counter toward the mirror, his head canted to one side, slowly pulling a razor down the angle of his jaw.

“Hey,” he said without moving his lips, though his eyes flitted to me, then quickly back to finish the job.

The thing was, he was so casual. He was so comfortable with me there in his bathroom while he shaved his face, but I was literally vibrating out of my high heels feeling like I’d walked into a steam room, because this guy was standing there in his slacks, belt undone again like it was usually the last thing he did up, and shirtless.

Yep. Just topless.

Just miles of golden skin my fingers ached to touch more than I’d ever wanted to strum a guitar. More than I’d wanted to press my fingers against the strings and frets of the Gibson I’d seen in a store in downtown Nashville when, at just sixteen, I knew my mother wouldn’t allow it.

He flipped on the tap and rinsed the razor, wiped his face on a towel, then his hands. I worked on keeping myself in place, clenching my toes in the base of my heels instead of letting the magnetic pull of him draw me in and attach me to his back. My cheek itched to rest on the expanse between his shoulder blades, my hands begging to run along his sides and wrap around front.

He turned to me.

“You’re stunning,” he said.

Cue the mildly hysterical giggle that escaped.

“Likewise,” I returned, my eyes mapping the chest in front of me.

It was art. Art, I tell you. Sculpted in a way that seemed like a joke, the muscles stacked like piles of stone under a liquid-smooth sheet, with everything defined in a way I hadn’t expected from someone whose life didn’t depend on other people’s opinions.

His answering smile seemed pleased. He moved in my direction, his cut chest coming within inches of me. My hands balled into fists.

“You seem… agitated.”

“Me?” My voice came out a little high, a little short.

“Yes.” His voice thrummed low and smooth, and when I glanced at his face, he seemed more than a little happy at my discombobulation.

“When will you be ready?” I asked, not entirely sure what words were coming out, what to do with myself.

He stepped closer, placing his body mere inches from mine, and the fresh, clean scent of him filled my senses, along with the warmth emanating from that body.

Oh. Hi.

“In a minute. But I was thinking we should practice before we go.”

---