by Elise Faber
He nodded. “In Hayward.”
“I haven’t heard of it.”
He tugged a lock of her hair. “I forget that you didn’t grow up here. It’s a smaller city between San Jose and Oakland. Great place when I was a kid, but it changed when I got older.”
“In what way?”
“Got bigger, felt less like that small town, and . . .” The words got stuck in his throat, but she just waited for him to find his voice again. “It was still home. I loved the hills and the downtown. We had a special curb.”
Her head tilted to the side as she glanced up at him with questions in her eyes. “A curb?”
He flashed a smile. “Yup.”
“C-u-r-b? As in one you stepped off.” Her brows drew together. “I’m struggling to understand the significance.”
Laughter flowed up his throat, filled the air around them. “It was built on a fault line, so every year it moved, separating from the sidewalk, jutting out a little more.” He shrugged. “It was always cool to go see it and measure it, to see how many millimeters it moved from one year to the next. A stupid thing, but my mom and I would keep track of our measurements in a notebook. We’d be so freaking careful to make sure we took them in the same exact spot. And my dad would be sitting on a bench across the street, a stack of books from the library in his arms, reading through one as we fussed.”
“That sounds really nice.”
“It was.” A beat. “Until they fixed the curb, and we couldn’t measure anymore.”
Stef gasped. “They didn’t.”
“Unfortunately, they did. I guess the city thought it was getting dangerous.” Another shrug. “And I supposed that I thought I was getting too old to enjoy doing it anyway. A teenager who was too cool to hang with his parents.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Because I was a pain in the ass teenager?”
She pinched his hip. “No,” she said. “But because you lost that part of your past.”
He’d never thought about it that way.
But he supposed he’d been mourning for it in some small way since his mom had passed, missing all the easy times of the traditions they’d had, the chance to make new memories with her.
“What happened to your parents?” she asked gently. “You said they were gone, but . . .”
He blinked, and for a moment, grief threatened to swell up over him, but he battled it back, kept this woman who had become intrinsic to his life in such a short time close. “My mom died a year ago, my dad five years before that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What about yours?” He slid his hand up and down her arm.
“They still live in the town I grew up in.” There was a note of sadness in her tone, and he wondered if he should ask about it, but then she kept talking. “Still the same house, actually. Hell, they drove the same station wagon from my teenage years until two years ago when it broke down and the mechanic couldn’t find parts to repair it.” The words came fast and furious. “So, they were stuck buying a new car and hated every minute of it.” Her voice had been overcome with sadness, the words finally coming to a halt.
“You want to talk about it?” he asked after she’d gone quiet and stayed that way for several moments.
She cleared her throat. “No,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I hijacked your story.”
He frowned. “I asked you about your family.”
“Right.” Another whisper, something fragile in her tone.
“I want to know all the things that make you tick.”
A shudder wracked her frame, and this time it wasn’t from the cold or the way he was holding her, touching her. This was a pain remembered, slices of agony that ran deep inside a person’s soul. He knew because like recognized like, because he’d so often felt those same cuts after his father had been murdered, after cancer had stolen his mother. Two good people taken, leaving him behind with just memories. So, he stayed quiet, held her close, and waited.
“You don’t.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but then she was pulling out of his hold and moving over to the railing, hands gripping on the metal bar. He might have let her have the moment, allowed the quiet to grow and stay that way if not for her wiping away a tear.
Just a sly small motion, fingers darting up for her eye.
But he did see it.
And he was moving toward her before he even registered that his feet were in motion.
“Hey,” he said softly. “What is it?”
She shook her head, wouldn’t look at him. “I’m sorry.”
Another apology.
“Stef.” He turned her to him, hooked a finger under her chin. “Honey, what is it?”
She stepped away from him, tears glistening on her cheeks. “I’m so—”
“Don’t apologize,” he snapped, not as gently as it should have been, worry having crept in as the tears started to come in full force. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
But she either couldn’t or wouldn’t, and when she stumbled back a pace and bent at the waist, a sob hiccupping out of her lungs, he closed the distance between them, scooped her up and carried her to the couch.
And all the while she kept apologizing.
And all the while he kept telling her to stop apologizing.
But eventually, he realized that his orders weren’t helping anything and just shut up and held her as she cried, as she repeated, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” over and over again.
It killed him, that painful nonstop rhetoric, as though by saying it repeatedly she was atoning for something.
What could she possibly have to atone for?
He knew he needed to find out, that it was locked up with whatever he’d seen the previous Sunday, what had occasionally crept into her eyes throughout the week—the expectation that he would look too close and then leave.
This was the puzzle piece to the distance she held.
The wall she’d erected, the barb that was shoving them apart.
When all he wanted was to get closer.
Finally, she grew quiet and limp in his arms, and he was almost afraid to speak, afraid that if he gave voice to any of the thoughts in his head, she would retreat. So he held his tongue, stared out at the lights, and just stroked a hand up and down her spine.
The words, when they eventually came, surprised him.
Because he didn’t talk about it.
Hadn’t ever talked about it.
Not with his mother. Not with Claire or Baine, who’d been with him when he’d received the phone call.
He’d buried it down. Deep down. Perhaps as deeply as this pain of Stef’s was buried.
“My father isn’t just gone,” he said. “He was murdered.”
Stef’s breathing had slowed, but when he spoke, it picked up again.
“He was just driving home from work,” Ben said. “Stopped at a signal, and someone shot him through the window, yanked him out of his car with a bullet wound to the chest, and drove off.” Ben’s gaze turned to the Bay Bridge, to the steady stream of red and white lights from cars that made their way back and forth across the bottom and top decks—away from the city on the bottom, to it on the top. “They left him to die in the middle of the street and then took his car.”
“Oh, Ben,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“The police found it three blocks away, parked half up on the curb, the door wide open. They took it and just left it there, discarded it like they had no use for it, for him—” His voice cracked.
She shifted in his arms, her hand lifting to rest on his jaw. “I’m sorry,” she said again.
He covered the back of her palm with his own. “I miss him. Every day, I miss him.”
Another tear slid down her cheek. “I know, baby.”
He lifted his hand to wipe it away, and she shifted, wrapped her arms around his waist, nuzzling into his throat.
“I miss him, too,” she said, so softly that he could hardly discern the words. “I should
n’t miss him so much. I’m not worthy of that grief, not when part of me hated him so much when he was alive.”
Ben’s heart ached at the agony of her words, but part of him also hoped.
Hoped so fucking much that she would share her hurt with him, allow him to take some of it away.
Instead, she held on tight to him, and he stayed quiet.
For minutes.
For hours.
Until the moon began to set, and Stef’s breathing went slow and steady, and he knew she’d fallen asleep in his arms.
Not tonight then.
Ben grasped on to his patience, held it firm, and carried her downstairs to his car, drove her back to his place.
Soon. He had to hope that soon she would give him the rest.
Because he’d take it, would wrap it up carefully inside him, remove the hurt, the agony, and he would give her back happy.
He would do anything to give her back happy.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Stef
Stef woke up and instantly knew where she was.
In Ben’s arms.
In Ben’s bed.
And even though exhaustion still tugged at her, she smiled. Because she really liked waking up with him.
As though sensing that she was awake, his eyes opened and his face gentled. “Morning, baby.”
“Morning,” she whispered, wanting to brush her fingers over his jaw.
As though sensing that, he tipped his head down, close enough so that his forehead rested against hers, so that she could easily touch him.
“You okay?” His eyes were on hers.
She nodded.
Then noticed the time on the clock on his nightstand. “Shit! I’m late.” She started to toss the blankets back, to slide out of bed, but Ben merely clamped a hand around her arm and tugged her back against him, rolling to pin her between him and the mattress.
Hard lines. Hard muscles. Hard . . . cock.
She shivered.
He grinned.
And suddenly, work became the last thing on her mind.
“I called Heidi last night,” he murmured. “Told her you wouldn’t be in today.” Her mouth dropped open. “Same as I called Claire and told her to forget my phone number for the day.”
Stef’s eyes widened.
“And she’s going to keep Sweetheart. And doggy day care is going to keep Fred for one more night.”
“I—”
His hips dropped down onto hers. “Is that okay?”
Her lips parted, her breathing shaky as pleasure began coiling itself like a snake in her abdomen. Always like this. Always needing him so fiercely.
“Baby?”
Heidi was probably going to interrogate her to no end, and she’d be hopelessly behind on Monday, but, “Yes, it’s okay.” It was wonderful actually. She hadn’t taken a day off in ages, not one during the week anyway, ignoring her responsibilities for the day. She didn’t think that she’d ever played hooky, nor had anyone she’d dated gone so far for her.
To call in to her boss.
To take care of her dog.
To think about the details so she didn’t have to.
Falling. Falling. So fucking deep, and . . . she couldn’t bring herself to care, couldn’t do anything except push back against his chest.
He moved instantly, giving her distance.
But it wasn’t distance that she wanted. Instead, she kept pushing, rolling him onto his back, clambering on top of him. Hands perched on his pecs, massaging the muscles that overfilled her hands, dragging her nails over his nipples, loving the hiss of his breath escaping the mouth she was suddenly quite desperate to kiss.
So, she did.
And had the lovely side benefit of being pressed to every inch of him, of tasting him, of his slightly roughened fingers coming to her ass.
She’d made a tactical error in not getting naked first.
Otherwise, she would have those hands on her bare skin.
Ben’s moan rumbled up his throat, filling her mouth, drifting down along her spine, winding its way between her legs. Her underwear was sopping wet, the T-shirt—Ben’s, she now realized—a cumbersome hindrance when she wanted her skin against his.
Forcing herself to break the kiss, she reared back and yanked off the material, thankful that Ben was reaching for her hips, shoving her panties down her thighs, not bothering to propel them farther than her knees. Which was fine with her because then his fingers slid back up and in between, stroking through the evidence of her desire. So wet. Always so wet for him.
She went to work on his boxer briefs, pushing the material out of her way, revealing the hard cock encased within.
“Yes,” she breathed, wrapping her hand around him and pumping.
Velvet over scorching steel.
He circled her clit, dipped a finger down and in, making her arch back against him, riding his hand as pleasure rocketed through her.
So quickly, she was close already.
But she didn’t want to come.
Or at least, she didn’t want to come yet.
She wanted him in and deep and thrusting hard and fast.
Shifting, she dislodged his fingers, started to ease down on him, the broad, bare head of his cock stretching her wide.
“Wait,” he murmured, reaching a hand overhead for the nightstand. “Condom.”
All the movement did was push him deeper inside her, making them both groan. “I have an IUD. Are you clean?”
“Yes.” He groaned. “Just had a physical last week.”
“Thank God,” she said. “I’m clean, too. Was tested after my ex and I . . .” Her hips weren’t in her control, not in the least, rocking and shifting, bringing him deeper and deeper, and though it felt so fucking good, she paused, met his gaze. “I haven’t been with anyone else. I want you without—” She broke off, nibbled at her bottom lip.
“Yes,” he panted, his fingers clutching her hips.
“Yes,” she repeated. Then, “Come inside me?”
He bucked, impaling himself deep, and they both groaned again, louder this time, and hers might have been a scream, but she didn’t care. Not when his hands were gripping her tightly, bringing her down on top of him, over and over again.
Not when his abs flexed, curling his shoulders up, changing the angles of their bodies so he could hit just the right spot.
“Fuck,” he growled. “You are so fucking beautiful.”
He was the beautiful one, or the things they were doing, building were beautiful, or . . . maybe she was beautiful. At least, the person she could dream about becoming. That confident, gorgeous woman was there, just within reach if only—
Ben’s thumb moved between them, pressing against her clit, just the way she liked.
Thoughts of beauty faded into thoughts of need, of desperation.
She moved faster, driving herself down onto his cock, her orgasm barreling toward her with the force of a hurricane, swirling and whipping her around and around, bearing down on her, and—
Boom.
The force of it rattled her to her core, pleasure condensing and then flaring out, forcing her to move faster and faster and faster until the waves of that bliss eddied, until Ben was gripping her tight and pouring himself inside her as he came.
She collapsed.
His arms wrapped around her.
She buried her face in his throat, inhaled the scent of him deep inside her.
And because they were playing hooky, she let sleep drag her back under.
Four weeks later, she was still in the same blissful cloud.
She and Ben had spent that day playing hooky in bed together, making love until they were too exhausted to do anything but order in food and sleep and watch old Sci-Fi shows on TV.
They’d laughed and cuddled before doing it all again.
Sex. Talk about work. About movies and TV and pop culture.
Ben had told her about his parents, about building his company, and how he’d started develop
ing the idea for Hunt Inc., how it had started as something small that could be an alternative to the big streaming networks, then had developed into something much bigger than he could have anticipated.
And now was their major competitor.
He was busy, very busy with meetings all day.
They didn’t talk or text during those hours, which was just as well, since her phone needed to remain off most of the time, but he had recently introduced a hard stop at six, no matter what was happening, and he expected it to be the same for everyone beneath him. No emails. No calls.
Just people able to go about their lives without work’s shadow constantly intruding. Easier to see how important that was now that he actually had a life.
Untraditional, same as the remote work he allowed his staff to do without question or clearance.
But it made for happy employees.
Plus, she got him all evening with no interruptions. Which was more than she could say for herself. Sometimes she had to be on call for the lab, if an experiment was running overnight or throughout a weekend, and if there was an issue, she had to go in.
They’d gone out every Thursday with her friends, and tonight—tonight!—she was meeting his friends.
Claire, Baine, and Spence. Oh, along with CJ, because Ben’s newest assistant, was coming along, too. Apparently, Spence was a little quiet but a nice guy, and they were trying to get him to hang out more. CJ would likely be freaked out and silent, but Ben was convinced it was important for them all to hang out. And Stef agreed. A work environment where everyone was comfortable with each other was better for everyone.
Claire and Baine, on the other hand, had been with him from nearly the beginning and were chomping at the bit—Claire, especially, according to Ben—to meet her. Meet might be code for interrogating her, but he’d been interrogated plenty by her friends, so she figured he was due.
But, as she surveyed her closet, what did one wear to a future interrogation?
A dress? Jeans and a T-shirt?
Something in between?
In the end, she decided on jeans, a blouse, and knee-high boots, a simple infinity scarf around her neck to ward off the night air.
So, maybe she was a basic bitch.
