Page 32 of The Slug Crystal
Ben hands the bottle back to me, his grin returning, faint but genuine. “At least you’re trying to fix what you fucked up. If nothing else, you can create a hashtag and bring other crazy ex-girlfriends into your circle. Create a movement.”
I cackle, tequila fizzing in my sinuses as I half-snort. “#SnailTransformationChallenge.”
Ben slides closer, his thigh pressing against mine under the bubbles. The contact is casual, but not accidental. His eyesare checking out my cleavage every other second and trying not to get caught. I raise my chin in challenge.
He glances at me, voice low. “So what are you going to do if we turn Alex back?”
“Panic and run for the hills?” I try for a joke, but the words fall heavier than I mean.
Ben grins. “That’s fair. But if it’s me, I’d at least ask for him to sign a legal agreement saying he won’t sue you.”
The tequila haze kicks into overdrive all at once, and I feel loose, fuzzy, and unmoored. The world shrinks down to the touch between me, and Ben’s knees. I say, “If we’re being honest, I wish I had never done it.”
Ben’s voice goes soft. “Because you’re scared, or because you wish you never met me?”
I shrug, watching the bubbles swirl around our legs and joke, “Both, probably.”
“Can I let you in on a secret?” Ben asks.
I nod.
“I’ve felt like you before. I married the same woman twice, thinking things had changed after we divorced the first time, but they hadn’t. I don’t think she ever missed me. I think she just liked having me around because I made her life easier.”
I don’t answer, just slide my hand up his thigh in what I hope is a comforting touch. And then we’re kissing, hard and clumsy, mouths full of heat and chlorinated steam. He tastes like tequila and limes, and for a second, I forget all the ways this could go wrong.
The kiss deepens, clumsy at first but urgent.. Ben’s hand comes up to cradle the back of my head, fingers tangling in my wet hair, and I let myself lean into the touch. The heat of the tub, the rain coming down in sheets, the burn of tequila still warm in my throat—it all blurs together until there’s nothing but him.
When we finally break apart, breathless, he presses hisforehead against mine. “Tell me to stop, Em, and I will,” he says, voice hoarse, softer than I’ve ever heard it.
I don’t.
Instead, I laugh, half nervous, half exhilarated, and whisper, “You talk too much.” Then I kiss him again.
It’s a blur from there. Ben’s hands are everywhere at once, gripping my hips and lifting me onto his lap, then running down my arms and down my spine. He strips off my bra, pinching my nipples, then laving across them with his tongue.
Between the steam, the heat of his mouth, the tequila, and the rain still dropping down onto us, I’m entirely overwhelmed by sensation. My hands sit heavily on his shoulders while my body arches into his. My hips thrust against his hard length straining against his boxers, desperately seeking friction against my sensitive core.
Ben moves a hand between us, tugging my underwear to the side to slide his fingers across my clit. A moan bursts from my throat at the touch, and I grind down on him. He picks up the pace, his fingers slicking across my skin as he switches his mouth to my other nipple.
In what feels like seconds, but could have been an hour, I start to feel the first pulses of an orgasm wash over me. I moan again, then shudder against Ben, pulling his mouth to mine for another deep kiss.
He doesn’t waste any time, freeing himself from his boxers, then sliding inside my still-clenching channel. Groaning against my shoulder, he glances up at me from half-lidded eyes, scanning over my face. “Okay?”
I nod once, and that’s all the consent he needs to start thrusting. The sex is frantic, with water splashing against the sides of the hot tub and over the edge with each of his thrusts upwards. He’s rougher than I expect, biting my shoulder and grunting my name. I’m so high on the moment that I barely notice when he tugs on my hair, until he pulls a little harder,causing me to arch away and allow his thrusts to hit even deeper.
Ben fucks like he’s got something to prove, and I don’t mind being the judge. A second orgasm builds with each of his long, deep strokes. It crests at the same time as he grunts his release, or close enough that I don’t care about the difference. Afterwards, I collapse against him, both of us gasping for air.
Ben leans back slightly, watching me. “You’re not what I expected,” he says.
I raise an eyebrow. “Is that a good thing?”
He grins, a little shy for the first time since I met him. “I like surprises.”
9COMMERCIAL AIRPLANES ARE FOR LOSERS
Tuesday,7:13AM. The next morning, the entire universe is made of chlorine and regret. My hair is a sticky mat on the pillow, my mouth tastes like pool chemicals and cheap tequila, and my wet underwear is suctioned to my body in a way that I don’t want to examine. I’m not entirely sure how we made it back to the motel room last night. My memory is a hazy blur of tequila fog.
For a full five minutes, I don’t move. I just lie there, stomach curdling, and try to remember the order of events. The tequila. The never have I ever game. The hot tub. The way Ben pressed his thigh against mine, warm and insistent. The way Ben’s hands shook a little when he unhooked my bra, as if even he couldn’t believe we were actually doing this. The way we both laughed, hysterical and half-drunk, when it was all over.
