Page 106 of Every Good Thing
“Ben,” I say louder this time. He stops, hovering with concern as he watches my lips. “Are you sure you’re up for this? You’re, um, okay?”
He whips us both upright, me straddling his lap. The kitchen light illuminates our faces as we consider each other.
“I’m fine,” he says softly. “Truly. Are you okay with this?”
A vigorous, automatic nod hides my hesitation. I want him, but I’m unsure I want him like this. The whiskies have worn off enough—he’s lucid and serious. And we both need the connection. But it feels more like a diversion than the sexy, fun times we’re used to.
Still, I deliver a quick, “Yeah, okay,” desperate for this not to turn out like the morning of my accident, when this nightmare started with a stupid glance at the clock.
Besides, he’s second-guessing me? Like a product, he’s considering returning to Amazon? I don’t want to disappoint him. I can’t deny him this. Or anything. Or miss a chance for him to feel close and secure.
He gives me a tender kiss like he reads my mind and wants to offer reassurance. “Hold on to me.”
I lock my arms around his neck, and he lifts us both, taking my breath away at how easily he does it. There’s no drunkenness in his manner as he carries me down the hall, either. His eyes laser to mine, even when he kisses me, as if afraid to look away.
He gently eases me onto the bed, disrobing me in seconds. Then, he takes me in. Slowly. One curve at a time, like he’s mapping a trail through the wilderness. I want to joke—you’ve seen it all before, hon—but his expression stops me.
He’s locking me into his memory like I’m a phone number he never wants to forget. Worries start to crowd me. Then, he collides with me. Full on. Heavy. Handsome and all-consuming.
I barely get his clothes off—a push-and-pull tug-of-war, like his body is an afterthought. And when we’re both there, naked, I shift on top of him, letting him see me fully because he seems to want to, and easing him into me like we’re in slow motion.
He cries out, closing his eyes. But only for a second.
Hands grip my ass hard, guiding me to the perfect rhythm. Despite his eagerness to do this, he wants me slowly, savoring each thrust.
His hand finds me, touching me as I move over him, but his accuracy is off. It’s an awkward, hit-or-miss endeavor. I go with it anyway—this is for him, not me—but I can’t fool him. Soon, he flips me on my back and crams his mouth between my legs like he has something to prove. It’s rough, almost frustrating, but wild enough to make me come quickly.
He groans when he enters me again, deep and fast, and I cry out this time. He hits the end of me with a vigor I’m not used to. Fun and gentle lovemaking is replaced by rough, hard, and determined sex. I wonder if this is the real Ben—aggressive and strong—and what else he’s held back from me.
He pins my hands over my head, regardless of my cast. As he rams against me, my eyes devour him like a feast. And the part of me that worries, that thinks too much, disintegrates into aching, loving, sweet pleasure.
“Holy shit, I’m going to come again,” I spit out because I can’t help it.
“Hold on,” he says against my lips. Watching me. Waiting. Steadily moving into me until his eyes close, and I can’t hold on anymore. My contractions pull him into me, and he breathily moans my name as he finishes.
We stay there, suspended, foreheads pressed against each other. I smile up at him, kiss his lips, then his chin, and plant soft pecks over his cheeks and scar, needing him to feel loved and secure. Needing the same myself.
But the comfort I need isn’t there. And I don’t want to be tricked into believing anything’s different.
He soon shifts away, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling.
I leave him for the bathroom and cry silently on the toilet.
Thirty-One
BEN
I don’t stir and keep my eyes shut when I feel Lena get out of bed the next morning. Or when she sneaks to my bedside and takes my phone. She expects me to be hungover and commandeers my phone like I’ve done to her when she needed sleep.
Only I haven’t slept all night.
I feel Ruthie’s heavy feet thump through the house when she wakes and the closing door when she leaves with Jack. I vaguely hear movement in the kitchen—dishes, water running, clinks and thumps of Busy Lena.
When I finally emerge from the bedroom, dressed and prepared, I find her exactly as I expect to—engrossed in busy work.
She smiles warmly when she sees me. “Hey, good morning. Feeling alright?”
My throat nearly closes. “What’s all this?”
