by Grey, R. S.
His mouth moves to my other breast and his hand slides down my stomach, down farther past my navel, and then his finger curls beneath my underwear. A shiver racks through me.
“Should we talk about what we’re doing?” I ask, suddenly nervous.
He pulls back and the self-assured smile he’s wearing makes me want to punch myself in the face for asking such a silly question.
His brow arches. “You want the play-by-play?”
Oh Jesus.
He looks like the devil.
His hair is dark brown in this light. I’m surprised I ever thought his eyes were the color of amber. In here, right now, they’re black as night.
“I’m kissing my way down your body,” he says just before he fulfills his promise.
I wish my stomach would quiver a little less, wish my heart would slow its pace or my hands would stop reaching for him. I want to touch him everywhere I can, the bulge of his biceps, the hard ridges of his abs.
“I’m going to slide your panties off.”
I cover my eyes. “Oh my gosh. Stop.”
“This?” he asks, nudging my panties down an inch. I’m barely concealed.
“No, the words. Your narration—it’s making me blush.”
A low chuckle escapes him and then he pushes me back onto the futon like I’m a stuffed animal. I flop down, legs splayed, and he crawls on top of me. I’m trapped.
This stupid excuse for a piece of furniture was not made for this. It’s wobbly and small. There’s hardly enough room for one person, let alone two. Ben keeps one of his feet planted on the ground and leans down over me, mouth taking mine in a soul-stealing kiss. I arch up to meet him when it seems like he’s going to pull away and he returns full force, tongue meeting mine. My hands cradle his neck and he peels my panties down my legs. I’m completely bared.
I’d have time to freak out about being naked in front of him if he didn’t reach down and cover me with his palm. He rubs the heel of his hand up and down, right between my thighs. Right. There. Again. Once more and my nails dig into skin. I’m wounding him because he’s wounding me. My heart will never be the same.
“Do you want to feel more?” he asks right before his middle finger slides inside me.
“Yes.”
“Like this?” He pumps in deep.
“Jee-zus.”
“You’re more than ready for me. God, you feel so good.” He sounds mad as he adds a second finger. My toes curl. “I’ll make you come like this. I’ll give you the play-by-play, yeah? You’re so tight. I’m seconds away from losing…” He groans. “Spread your legs.”
My legs fall apart as if they belong to him now.
I pinch my eyes closed and his fingers pump faster.
“It’s going to hurt, Madison. Look. Open your eyes.”
I do and he’s wiping hair from my face, tilting my chin so I have to meet his heavy gaze. He kisses me quickly and then leans back again.
“This can be over now. I can make you come just like this. It feels good, right?”
He swirls his thumb and, “Yes.” I let out the word on an exhale.
“We don’t have to keep going. We don’t have to have sex.”
If I had a condom in hand, I’d tear it open and throw it at him.
“Please, Ben.”
He doesn’t give in to my demands. He keeps going, keeps pumping, keeps turning me on. I know he’s ensuring that I’m ready, that I’m as wet as I could ever be, but I’m dying a slow death here. He’s kissing me seductively and his tongue is so convincing, I nearly give in. I’m so close to orgasming just from this—
No. I break off our kiss and cradle his face in my hands, staring pleadingly into his eyes.
“Please.”
Our gazes stay locked and I brush my thumb across his cheek.
“Please.”
He stands then, depriving me of his touch. He turns to find his pants and tugs a condom out of the back pocket.
I sit up a little, watching him. Suddenly, I feel very naked with him halfway across the room.
I feel silly and small and what does he think of this ridiculous apartment? What does he think of me? I hate that I’m even thinking about that right now, but this is all new to me. Not to him, though—he’s been here before. Other women have come before me, and maybe this moment doesn’t meet his expectations. Maybe I don’t meet his expectations.
Then he turns back and he halts as his gaze catches on me. I’m completely naked, lying there, waiting for him. His eyes light a fire across my skin, he starts between my thighs, then he moves up across my taught stomach and my full, heavy breasts. When our gazes lock, he looks wild, feral. I might not know everything about this, but I know one thing: the way Ben’s looking at me, it’s like there’s no other woman on earth. This place might as well be a penthouse suite. I might as well be lying on a bed of silk and rose petals instead of scratchy black cotton.
He comes back to the futon, condom in hand, and reaches down to arrange me so there’s more room for him to wedge his knee between my thigh and the cushion.
Foil tears and I watch, attention riveted, as he unrolls the condom onto himself, pumping up and down twice before he positions himself on top of me.
“Wrap your legs around my hips,” he says, grabbing the backs of my thighs. When I comply, he nods. “Yeah, like that.”
He fists his length and brushes it up and down between my thighs, coaxing me, drawing this out just a little bit more. When my nails bite into his skin, he starts to push himself inside slowly. His upper body falls over me, blanketing me from the world.
His lips hit my cheek and he whispers, “Just try to relax.”
I take a deep breath and he pushes in another inch. It burns in such a unique way, a way that seems unbearable. My first instinct is to tell him to stop. I fist my hands and push against him. No, you can’t keep going. It doesn’t feel right. He slides in another inch. The pain intensifies and I must make a sound because Ben kisses me hard on the mouth, assuring me, promising me, soothing me. He continues until he’s all the way in and the fire is eating me up from the inside out. Instead of shoving him away, my hands are on his back now, gripping him and ensuring he stays right where he is. I’m scared of movement, of the potential for more pain.
“Breathe,” he begs, lifting up just enough to trace his hand along my body. He finds my rose tattoo and his palm flattens over it reverently.
I move my hand to cover his and I squeeze, hard. His eyes lock with mine and an invisible string knots us together. Right now, with him buried deep inside me, he can see straight into me, and maybe, for once, I can see straight into him too.
Emotions overwhelm me and I lift my head to kiss him, hoping I can keep him from noticing. His hand moves from my tattoo, dragging down my stomach, inciting lust in its wake. There’s a point at which the pain starts to slink away, beaten back by the promise of pleasure. My jaw slowly unclenches and my legs start to ease apart. His thumb brushes between my thighs and I clench around him. It’s like my body knows just what to do. His lips move over mine and his kisses turn demanding and hot. His reassuring touch is gone. Now, he’s pouring fire over me and stoking the flames I thought the pain had doused.
He drags himself out a little and then thrusts back in. The sensation is otherworldly, and what I think starts out as pretty damn good turns into something extraordinary.
I moan and then demand he continue.
“Like that. Yes.”
He pulls out a little more and then pushes back, rocking his hips back and forth. His sinful smile is back and a lock of brown hair falls over his forehead. I brush it back in place, but it’s futile. He’s moving too much now, thrusting and rolling his hips against me. His pace is impossible to match, so I let him have his way with me. Oh yes, don’t mind me. I’m little more than a limp body and I’m truly sorry about not doing my part, except not really, because holy hell he’s good.
His hand covers my hip, keeping me right where he wants me, and he
looks down at where our bodies meet, thrust for thrust. My back arches and his finger finds the sweet spot, the spot where, when he makes contact with it, I’m prepared to sacrifice my life if only he would continue.
Like that.
The barest brush.
The constant building need.
I know what’s coming. The chain reaction has already gripped hold of my body.
“I’m going to—”
There are tingles in my toes.
There’s no chance for me to finish my sentence as his pace picks up.
His ab muscles ripple as he thrusts in and out of me. I want to hold off as long as possible, to grip hold of this feeling that seems so beautiful and fleeting. I’ll only have this moment once in my life and if it passes me by, then what?
Then…I’ll…
I clench tightly as I cry out, body racked with waves of pleasure.
I didn’t realize how starkly different it would feel to orgasm with him inside me. There should almost be a new word for it. It’s an experience unto itself. He fills me up and I clench, and that perfect sensation is what I’m made for.
There’s no space between us. Our chests are flush. Our mouths are sealed together. He’s grinding inside me so deep, milking, dragging, clawing out every last bit of pleasure I have to give, and when I’m drained, when there’s no way I’ll be able to move or breathe or continue living, his body shakes and a low rumble releases from his chest. It sounds like I’ve split him right down the middle. He jerks into me, filling me, and now our roles are reversed.
I’m soothing him, running my hand down his back, helping him come down from the high. I’m kissing his cheek and keeping him close. We stay on that futon wrapped around one another. The silence blares around us. Our hearts beat on, trying to give us back all the oxygen we’ve just burned up with blazing passion.
I want to lean back and meet his eyes and speak the truth.
I love you.
Simply that. I love you and maybe that’s silly. I love you and this was supposed to be a fun adventure, a daring departure from my normal life. I love you and that love comes with no strings and no assumptions, no requirements for you to say it back. Just love, given.
And because this is the year I’m living my life without safety nets, I do exactly that. I say those exact words. I shoot myself right in the foot.
“I’ve fallen into the cliché,” I lament. “My first time and here I am pouring my heart out.” I laugh and move away. “Ignore me.”
“Don’t do that,” he says, grabbing hold of my wrist. “Don’t say those things and then erase them as if they don’t matter.”
I blink, shocked.
“Falling quickly isn’t wrong. My dad fell for my mom the first day they met.”
My heart flutters. “You don’t talk about her much, or about them, really.”
He looks down at me, eyes narrowed. It’s like I’ve just shared a revelation. Did he not realize how closed off he is about her?
I think he’s about to slam the door closed on the subject but instead, he asks simply, “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
19
Madison
“I’m not still grinning, am I?”
Eli rolls his eyes. “Yes. Tone it down. I can see every one of your teeth.”
“Really?!”
I could have sworn my face was back to normal.
“Why are you so happy? Just because you and Ben are dating and he’s a wild animal in the sack, now you’re just going to walk around smiling all the time?”
“Maybe.”
Arianna and Kevin make fake gagging sounds, but I don’t care. I’m floating. Permanently. Life continues on below me, but I’m on a cloud, and my happiness is untouchable. It’s glorious.
“We might not be able to be friends anymore,” Eli quips.
I poke him in the ribs and steal one of his chips. Then I adjust Ben’s baseball hat on my head and try very, very hard to seem appropriately happy. It doesn’t work. They all groan and throw chips at me. Joke’s on them though because I’m hungry.
It’s Saturday and we’re all at the park together. Andy and Ben are out tossing a football around. The rest of us are under an oak tree lying on blankets, enjoying the good weather.
Oh, and don’t worry, a few guys showed up with a frisbee a few minutes ago and Ben forced them to go to the other side of the park.
“My hero!” I shouted, making everyone laugh.
Ben and I are still in the beginning stage of our relationship, working out all the kinks, like do we want to have sex eighty times a week or ninety? It’s been a real challenge.
Joking aside, I’ve had to be careful with my time. I don’t want to get so involved with Ben that I neglect my dad and brother. In the last week, I’ve gone to see my dad twice after work. I cooked him dinner and played cards, even helped him with particularly stump-worthy crossword clues. Last night, Colten was there too, and it was a little awkward. I could tell neither of them was quite ready to put the beach incident behind them. They were tiptoeing around it, asking about my apartment and work.
If they’d had it their way, I wouldn’t have brought Ben into the conversation at all, but I had to address it. Ben is here to stay (hopefully!), so my dad and Colten are just going to have to get over it.
I told them, very plainly, that I had no plans to end my relationship with him.
We subsequently ate the rest of dinner in silence.
I wince just thinking about it, which is the reason I have to do something. Life can’t continue like this. I have a plan. I’m going to host a breakfast at my apartment and everyone will be invited: Ben, Colten, and my dad.
In my head, I envision it playing out like a United Nations round-table discussion with the addition of freshly-baked pastries and orange juice. We’re all going to leave our weapons at the door and put on our most diplomatic smiles. Everything will work out and we’ll be singing Kumbaya by the end of it.
This is all well and good, but I don’t work up the courage to actually initiate the breakfast for another month.
I’m scared. Honestly. What if the relationship between Ben and my family is irreparable? What if I have to choose sides? No. I refuse to dwell in those negative thoughts. Instead, I focus on the things I can control, like how to whip up some freaking stellar scrambled eggs. Potentially laced with some kind of feel-good drug.
* * *
Saturday—a month into my relationship with Ben—I wake up bright and early in my apartment and get to work fixing a feast using my microwave and recently purchased hotplate, and when that turns out abysmally, I run to the donut shop down the street and order two dozen glazed donuts fresh out of the fryer. My cheap coffee pot doesn’t produce the best cup of joe, so I have Ben stop to grab a carafe from Starbucks.
Now we all sit around the cheap card table in my apartment with the gold lamp adding harsh lighting to an already tense situation.
We have enough coffee and donuts to stuff our mouths for a week and thus far, that’s exactly what we’ve done.
Conversation has been limited. I’ve tried and failed to initiate all sorts of bonding moments. I casually laid out a newspaper highlighting the Astros’ win over the Cubs last night. Boys like baseball. It’s simple. They should all be discussing it ad nauseum. Unfortunately, they don’t bite.
I have music playing on my phone, my dad’s favorite: George Straight. He should be tapping his foot under the table and swaying side to side. Instead, nothing. His face is stone cold.
Colten keeps glancing over at Ben, shaking his head, and then forcing down another sip of coffee.
Ben, to his credit, isn’t necessarily antagonizing them, but he’s not being friendly either. Also, I know he doesn’t mean to be, but he’s a force to be reckoned with. His presence takes up a lot of room. I keep trying to get his attention so I can tell him to sink down in his chair a little. I don’t know…maybe if he affects worse posture, he won’t seem
so intimidating?
There’s a lot of testosterone and ego in this room. I haven’t managed to eat a single bite of my donut, and if I drink any more coffee, I won’t be able to sleep for a month.
“So, did you guys see the score from the baseball game last night?” I ask, pointing to the newspaper.
They offer nonverbal grunts.
Right.
Okay, this isn’t just awkward—it’s full-on cringe-worthy. I want to disappear into thin air.
I truly didn’t think this whole feud of theirs would last this long. It’s been weeks since Ben and I…you know…on the futon. I blush thinking about it. I can’t even look in the direction of said piece of furniture or I’ll start sweating.
Since then, we’ve spent almost every waking moment together. It’s pathetic. My heart might still beat in my body, but it’s now inscribed with the initials B.R.
Every day, when the clock strikes 5:30 PM, I sprint right out the front door of the library, shouting goodbye to Eli as he heads for his car. I proceed down to Main Street and am at Ben’s firm, in his office, kissing his face at exactly 5:35 PM. Sometimes he’s on a phone call and sometimes he’s in there with Andy, but I don’t care. I kiss him no matter what. Andy always covers his eyes and tells us to get a room. Ben always kicks him out soon after.
Then I sit patiently on his couch, reading while he wraps up whatever he has going on. If he has to work late, we eat dinner at his office and then I head home, but more often than not, he drives us back to his house so we can spend the evening together and make dinner at his house. During the drive, his hand usually finds a spot on my body he can torture me with: the nape of my neck, the inside of my thigh, my forearm, hand, anything.
We make it into his driveway, he throws that puppy into park, and we race to the front door. Dinner prep is long forgotten as we tear at each other’s clothes. Oh, Chinese food? Sounds great. Take off your pants. I know we’re in the honeymoon phase. I know we won’t always be rabid like this, but that’s okay. For right now, I’m enjoying it. My clothes, however, are not. I’ve lost about forty-five buttons, and half my panties are torn!
