Page 21 of More With You

The door creaks slightly, like he’s leaning against it. “It’s Ben. I’m… sorry.” He pauses. “You’re going to hear that a lot from me tonight, but I mean every single apology.”

“It’s 3AM. There’s not much of the night left,” I reply, one hand on the lock, the other on the door handle.

He sighs softly. “I know. I’m so sorry. This wasn’t how I envisioned things going today.”

Deciding to put him out of his misery, I open the door. He’s standing, stoop-shouldered, chin to his chest, like a schoolboy in trouble with the principal. He’s changed clothes, too, though his “Ben uniform” doesn’t change much. A different pair of jeans, a different t-shirt, same Ben.

He runs a hand through his thick hair, and looks up, his beautiful blue eyes shining with relief. “I didn’t know if you were going to open that.” He looks bone tired. “I didn’t know if you’d be awake, to be honest, but I thought I’d give it a shot.”

“I nearly wasn’t.” I think about telling him that I sensed him, but I wouldn’t know how to begin explaining it.

Over his shoulder, up the meandering path to the gate that’s lit up with little solar lamps, I spot his motorcycle. I didn’t hear the engine.

He follows my line of sight and laughs softly. “I didn’t want to wake you up, so I rolled it up to the gate.” He turns back. “I guess knocking kind of contradicts the quiet approach thing, huh?”

“I’m glad you did,” I admit. For more than a moment, tonight, I worried he wasn’t ever going to come back. Just one almost perfect date, and that would be that. Game over.

He raises a hopeful eyebrow. “You are?”

I nod.

A second later, he’s sweeping into the cottage and kicking the door shut behind him as he gathers me into his arms. His lips find mine, his mouth fierce and hot and eager on mine. I don’t know if it’s just my mind, but I swear his lips still taste of salt and spice and sweetness. Maybe that’s just him: an addictive taste I can’t get enough of.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, in the ebb and flow of his kiss.

“You said that already,” I gasp in reply, melting into him.

His hands slip beneath my t-shirt, his palms rough and warm against my bare skin. Not the palms of someone born with a silver spoon in their mouth. I can’t help but respond in kind, sliding my hands under his shirt to follow the dip of his spine up to the taut muscle of his broad shoulder blades. I hook my hands over his shoulders for a moment, bracing myself against him as our mouths move in frenzied bliss.

His fingertips caress the place where a bra strap should be, but he won’t find one. Though he’d said he’d come back when he was done at his parents’ house, I suppose I never thought he would. Not today, anyway. Tomorrow morning, with a contrite coffee and a penitent donut, maybe. Still, I stayed on the couch instead of going to bed, so perhaps I’d been holding onto a tiny bit of hope that he’d appear on my doorstep.

I feel him smile against my lips. “I like this.”

“Which part?” I whisper, my breath shallow and sharp at his every touch.

His hands escape the edge of my t-shirt and smooth over the rise of my ass. There’s no mystery in these leggings. “All of it.” Gripping a little lower, at the highest point of my thighs, he hoists me up. Instinctively, my legs wrap around his waist. “All of you,” he adds, catching my mouth with his.

Holding his face, our kiss deepens, his tongue inviting mine to slow dance, as he carries me across the room to the couch. I think about directing him straight to the bedroom, but it’s cozy out here. I didn’t go to the effort of adding an orange tint to the hurricane lantern glass for nothing. Until now, I didn’t realize that my living room screamed romance, but I guess I must’ve had the possibility on the brain when I decorated.

Reaching the couch, he sits down, and I bend my legs to either side of his thighs, straddling him. It’s safe, like this. I’m in control.

“I really am sorry,” he whispers, taking soft, searing kisses to my neck.

I smile. “Stop apologizing. Keep kissing.”

“I can definitely do that.” He laughs and his teeth graze at my earlobe, before his lips resume their intimate exploration of my neck, my throat, my collarbone. His fingertips tug at the neckline of my t-shirt, his mouth following the revelation of uncharted territory.

I feel his hands taking hold of the edge of my t-shirt, and I know there was something I was supposed to ask him, but his kiss flows back to my lips again and I’m lost in the powerful riptide of his mouth, his tongue, his fingertips urging the fabric of my t-shirt up and over my head. My arms lift to help him, and he holds the material over my eyes for a moment, stealing away my other senses until there’s only the consuming caress of his mouth on mine, like waves lapping golden shores.

A moment later, he restores my sight and throws the t-shirt over the back of the sofa. My cottage seems different, colored with the warm hues that his presence paints across the familiar, making it new and vibrant. And he isn’t exempt from the transformation. I don’t know how, but he’s even more gorgeous than he was a moment ago. His eyes, that mysterious shade of dark blue, are the unexplored parts of the ocean that I’m desperate to discover. They draw me down into the depths of him, submerging me in the pull of his desire. My desire. Our desire.

His arms cradle me, a coarse palm tingling up my spine, weaving his fingertips into my hair, loosening my bun until my hair falls free. My eyes close to the slow massage of his touch against my nape, my every breath taking on meaning, whispering “I want you” on each exhale. He’s listening. He understands the secret language of breath and body, clearly eager to hear more as his kiss moves over the swell of my breast. The anticipation is dangerous, as his tongue brushes his own secret symbols against my skin, drawing a sharp gasp from my throat as it strikes against the matchbox of my nipple. Sparks flare, coursing through the rivers and streams of my veins, turning blood into molten need. A need for him.

“Is it too fast?” He swallows, catching his breath.

I shake my head, biting my lip. “It’s not fast enough.”

He smiles up at me. “I hate to disappoint, but I won’t be rushing.”

---