Page 79 of The Slug Crystal
The distance between us collapses in an instant. Ben's lips find mine with urgent precision, tasting of wine and want and days of building tension. His hands tangle in my hair, angling my face up to deepen the kiss. I respond with equal fervor, weeks of stress and fear, and complicated emotions channeling into this single point of contact.
He corners me against the counter, his body pressing against mine in a way that makes rational thought impossible. My hands explore the contours of his chest, the same muscles I've been watching all day, now firm beneath my fingertips. His kiss grows more demanding, hungrier, and Imatch him beat for beat, nipping at his lower lip until he groans against my mouth.
"Been thinking about this since the hot tub," he murmurs, his lips trailing down my neck, finding the sensitive spot where my pulse races beneath the skin. "Since I first saw you in the bar with that damn blue snail, looking so determined and so lost at the same time. If I’m being honest."
His hands slide under my thin sleep shirt, callused palms rough against the smooth skin of my back. I arch into his touch, letting my head fall back to give him better access to my throat. The cool edge of the marble counter presses into my lower back, a sharp contrast to the heat of Ben's body against mine.
With impressive strength, he lifts me easily onto the counter, stepping between my legs as they wrap instinctively around his waist. The marble is cold against my bare thighs, making me gasp into Ben's mouth. He swallows the sound, his hands pushing my shirt higher, exposing my skin to the cool air.
My fingers fumble with the buttons of his sleep shirt, one I think he borrowed from Luca. I want, no need, to feel more of him. He helps, impatiently yanking the fabric open, buttons clinking against the tiled floor. The sound seems impossibly loud in the quiet kitchen, but I can't bring myself to care as Ben's hands find my breasts, his touch sending electricity through my nerve endings.
His mouth returns to mine, the kiss deep and demanding, wine-flavored and intoxicating in its own right. My legs tighten around his waist, pulling him closer, feeling the hard evidence of his desire pressing against me through thin layers of fabric. My hands explore the planes of his chest, the ridges of muscle, the line of hair that disappears beneath his waistband.
"Emma," he breathes against my lips, my name a prayer and a plea simultaneously.
"Well, this is an interesting development." The voice, Marco's voice, cuts through our haze of lust like a bucket of ice water. Ben stiffens against me, his forehead dropping to my shoulder for a brief moment before he turns, keeping his body positioned to shield my disheveled state from view.
Marco leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, his expression caught between amusement and something harder to define. In the dim light, it's difficult to read his eyes behind his glasses, but the tilt of his mouth suggests he's not entirely surprised by what he's interrupted.
"I was looking for a glass of water," he says, his academic tone at odds with the tension in the room. "But it seems the kitchen is... occupied."
Ben's hand remains at my waist, steadying me, his touch now protective rather than passionate. "We were just?—"
"No explanation necessary," Marco interrupts smoothly. "The human need for connection is perfectly natural, especially in high-stress situations." His eyes meet mine over Ben's shoulder. "Though timing and location are considerations worth noting."
Heat floods my face, embarrassment mixing with the lingering effects of desire and wine. I adjust my clothing as discreetly as possible, grateful for Ben's solid presence between me and Marco's too-perceptive gaze.
"I'll find my hydration elsewhere," Marco continues, his voice neutral. "Buonanotte." He turns to leave, then pauses, adding without looking back, "The guest bathroom has a lock, should you wish to continue with fewer interruptions."
He disappears into the darkness of the hallway, his footsteps fading away, leaving Ben and me in a silence heavy with unspoken questions.
Ben turns back to me, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. "We could take his suggestion," he says, his voice rough with lingering desire. "Find somewhere more private."
His body is still warm against mine, still tempting, but thespell has been broken. I place my hands on his chest, gently creating distance between us.
"Ben," I say softly, "that was... amazing. But I can't."
Disappointment flashes across his face, quickly masked with understanding. "Jake?"
I shake my head. "Not just Jake. Or Marco. Or Luca. Or even Alex." I slide off the counter, my feet finding the cool tile floor. "It's complicated enough without adding this to the mix. I need to focus on why we're really here."
Ben steps back, giving me space, though his hand lingers at my waist. "So, what was this then?" he asks, gesturing between us.
I straighten my clothes, trying to gather my scattered thoughts. "This was... a moment. A beautiful, wine-soaked moment between friends." I meet his eyes directly. "But it's not that kind of hook-up. It can't be, not with everything else going on."
His thumb traces a small circle against my hip before he finally lets his hand drop. "For the record," he says, a hint of his usual humor returning, "that 'beautiful, wine-soaked moment' was heading somewhere spectacular."
Despite everything, I laugh. "I don't doubt it."
I pick up my empty wine glass, placing it in the sink with deliberate care. "Goodnight, Ben," I say, moving toward the doorway.
"Emma," he calls softly as I reach the threshold. When I turn, his expression is more serious than I've ever seen it. "For what it's worth, I think you're handling this whole impossible situation better than anyone could expect. Snail boyfriend, witch hunt, four guys falling for you. You're taking it all in stride."
The simple validation touches something in me, making my throat tight with unexpected emotion. "Thank you," I manage.
"Anytime," he replies, the word carrying more weight than its casual usage should allow.
I leave him standing in the pool of light, his shirt still unbuttoned, half the buttons missing and littered on the floor, and the wine still open on the counter. As I navigate the darkened hallways back to my room, I can still taste him on my lips, still feel the phantom pressure of his hands on my skin. But beneath the lingering physical sensations, there's a clearer certainty. Whatever connections I'm forming with these four men, they'll have to wait. Alex comes first. Fixing my mistake and returning him to human form is my top priority.
