Page 37 of The Twelve-Hour Rule
SOL
The knock comes justas I’m pouring hot water into my mug.
Two sharp taps, then a pause, like whoever’s out there is still debating whether knocking at this time is a good idea or not.
I’m not expecting anyone. Ben’s in Boston this week, and we said we’d see each other this weekend when he’s back.
But something in me knows, even before I open the door.
He’s standing there, hair damp from the drizzle, a paper bag in one hand and his suitcase in the other.
“Hi,” he says, sheepish grin and all. “I brought Chinese from that place you like.”
It’s freezing out, and the tip of his nose is pink. “Wha—It’s eleven o’ clock at night, babe.”
He shrugs. “I was in the neighborhood.”
I laugh, stepping aside so he can come in. “I thought you were in Boston until tomorrow.”
He leans down and kisses me, soft and quick, the kind of kiss that still makes my heart do that stupid flutter. “Traffic was light.”
“You’re ridiculous.” I try to hide my smile, but it’s no use.
“Persistent, baby. We already discussed this.”
He drops the bag on my small dining table and starts taking off his shoes, like he’s done probably a few dozen times since January.
“Also,” he says, unbuttoning his dress shirt and slacks, voice low and infuriatingly calm, “I really wanted to eat you.”
For a second, I just stare at him, sure I’ve misheard. Then heat floods my face so fast it’s dizzying.
“Ben—” I start, but it turns into a gasp when he bends and scoops me up like I weigh nothing, one arm under my knees, the other steady against my back.
“Jesus,” I breathe, instinctively grabbing his shoulders. He’s grinning now, that same crooked, dangerous smile from the first night, except this time, there’s nothing hesitant about it. His eyes are bright with mischief and heat, and it makes my pulse stumble. “Warn a girl next time,” I manage, breathless.
He chuckles against my neck, the sound low and warm. “But then I’d miss this look on your face,” he says as he walks us into my bedroom.
“Why are you so obsessed with me?”
“Have you seen you? Of course I’m obsessed.” He licks his lips and dumps me on my bed, and the next thing I know he’s on top of me, kissing down my neck and shoulders, teasing my nipples over my pajama shirt. “God, I miss you so much when I’m traveling. How is this even fair?”
I laugh, and Ben’s smile ghosts against my stomach. His hands slide under my shirt, fingers warm as they skim my ribs before he pulls it over my head and tosses it behind him—a casualty in a growing pile. He kneels, strips off his own shirt, and it joins the mess with practiced ease.
“Okay,” he says, rubbing his palms and watching me like I’m his last meal, “enough chit-chat.” I roll my eyes, but the sound that leaves me when his lips brush over my stomach gives me away. It’s a desperate whimper and he loves it.
He kisses the small line of tattoos along my ribs—new ones, from a few weeks ago. Two tiny flowers, inked in fine lines, each one different from the other. The same kind he handed me that morning at the resort, pressed inside a napkin like a secret. It felt silly at the time, but now it’s part of me—a reminder that something small and unexpected can bloom into everything.
When he blows softly against the ink, my breath stutters, and his quiet laugh follows. “I still can’t believe you got them too,” I say, fingers slipping into his hair.
He looks up, grinning. “You didn’t think I’d let you keep them all to yourself, did you?”
And there, just below his collarbone, I catch the faint outline of the same two flowers—mirrored, permanent, ours.
Something twists low in my stomach at the sight. The intimacy of it—the fact that it’s on his skin too—makes everything pulse harder, sharper. I drag my nails lightly over the ink, and his breath catches.
His eyes darken, voice rough when he speaks. “How do you want to come, baby?”
“Jesus, the things you say.”
