by Adora Crooks
When I see myself in the mirror, I nearly freeze. Oh my God. I look like something out of a horror movie. Toward the end of the movie, where the heroine has been through hell and back again and hits rock bottom before the exorcist saves her. My hair is a frazzled mess. The skin under my eyes is puffy and blue. And the bandage on my side… it’s huge. A solid three inches of white.
The back of my throat gets saliva thick. I feel sick looking at it. I’ve been stabbed. With an actual knife. I could’ve died. I can imagine that phone call, some officer from Buckingham Palace, maybe. All official and British when they called up my parents and delivered the news. They’d be devastated. And Oscar…
It would kill him.
My heart is pounding, and I feel that flush of heat crawl up my neck. A panic attack is coming on. I quickly shove my shirt back down so I don’t have to look at the bandage. My hands are shaking, and it’s hard to twist the cap off my prescription bottle, but I finally do. I pop my antibiotics and a Vicodin—one less than the doctor prescribed, but my stomach never did well with medications. I flip the tap and bend over the sink to let the cold water dribble over my lips. I wipe my mouth and rush out of the bathroom.
My vision is pulsing, and the hallway narrows and widens with each rapid beat of my heart. I quicken my pace like a child chased by nightmare monsters. I stumble into the room and dive into Ben’s cot.
“Ben,” I whisper.
His eyes fly open immediately. He’s not exactly a deep sleeper. “What is it?”
There are people in the room. Even through everyone seems to be asleep, I don’t want to draw any attention to myself. So I murmur, just loud enough for Ben to hear, “Choke me. Please.”
Ben doesn’t ask. Maybe he sees the panic in my eyes. Maybe he just knows how badly I need this.
“Get on your back,” he commands. In the dark, his voice is low and velvet smooth.
I submit to him and settle on my back. The bed groans as he leans on his elbow and closes his hand around my throat. As soon as his fingers touch either side of my jaw, I feel a blanket of bliss fall over me. Ben tightens his grip and my airway constricts. His arm is like a rope pulling me to safety, and I hold it to me. I hear a soft, grateful hum leave my throat. The lack of oxygen makes my brain feel fuzzy… but I’m safe here. I’m safe. So safe. My fear dissolves in my blood and is replaced with calm, peaceful submission.
I don’t know how long Ben holds me here. When he does finally release his grip, I gasp like a newborn. The air tastes cold and fresh in my lungs.
“Better?” he asks.
I nod. I don’t realize I’ve been crying until I feel my tears wet the pillow. “Thank you,” I whisper.
“For what?”
“Being here. I can barely get through this without Roland…and I miss him so much it hurts. But… I don’t know what I’d do if I’d lost the both of you.”
He leaves his hand on my throat, but his grip is loose now. I love it. It feels like a collar. I’m safe, as long as I’m his.
“I’m not leaving you,” he tells me. As my eyes adjust to the dark, I can see the dark of his irises fixed on me.
“Let’s go away,” I whisper. “There are cheap flights to Scotland from here. We can just… go.”
“I’ll go wherever you go,” he says, and the back of my eyes burn again as fresh tears spring free.
I grab his face and pull him into a kiss. He presses his lips back against mine and roughly invades my mouth with his tongue. I feel so open to him, and my lips part easily. I taste his tongue and my own salty tears.
One touch from Ben and my shackles of anxiety fall away. I’m free. But even this euphoria has a dark undercurrent. I miss Roland so much—and so does he. I can taste it in the way he kisses me. We crush our lips together, forgetting to be gentle with our damaged bodies. We’re missing a third piece and making up for it with a collision of desire.
“Be quiet,” Ben says as he tugs the button of my pants loose. I nod in understanding and hang around his neck. I feel his hand slide down my pants and underneath my panties. My mouth falls open, and I stifle a gasp when his rough fingers slide over my slit. I must be slippery, because his touch glides back and forth, igniting every nerve between my legs. When he finds my clit, he flicks it mercilessly. I almost cry out, pleasure burning through my veins with every touch, but he shoves his tongue in my mouth and extinguishes any sound.
“There’s a condom in my bag,” he murmurs and pulls his hand out from between my legs. “Side pocket.”
I’m buzzing all over. I twist over the side of the bed and grope underneath it for his duffle bag. I find the strap and tug it forward. As I undo the zipper, Ben’s hand ventures under my shirt. He slips under my bra and rolls his thumb over my peaked nipple. I bite my lip hard to keep myself from whimpering. Every pinch sends another needy pulse between my legs.
It’s not in one side zipper, so I hunt blindly through another until my fingers brush the square foil. Eureka! I tug it out and roll onto my back, holding it up between two fingers like a victory flag. “Boom.”
“Good girl.” He takes it from me and rips the foil between his teeth. That shouldn’t be hot, but it makes me lick my lips. I feel the mattress under us move as he reaches down to adjust the condom over himself.
Ben kisses me. I sigh into his mouth as he shifts over me. He only gets part of the way on top of me, however, before he finishes our kiss with a sharp gasp. Moonlight bounces off his jawline, and I can tell it’s tense. His injury is acting up.
“You’re going to have to be on top,” he mumbles.
“Okay.” I pet his hair back.
Honestly, this is probably not the smartest time to have sex. What we both need is a good night’s sleep, a lot of rest, and definitely no physical exertion. But there’s an emptiness inside of me that only intimacy can fill, and I know Ben feels it, too. His strong hands and demanding lips heal me like nothing else. Ben fucks his pain away. I just need to be close to someone.
We trade places—Ben gets on his back, and I shrug out of my pants and underwear before straddling him. If anyone looked our way now, we’d definitely be caught, but I care about that less and less with every passing second. My need for him is urgent and so palpable I can taste it like metal in my mouth.
There’s not a lot of space between this bunk and the one above it, and I have to hunch over to keep from bumping my head. With my legs wrapped around his hips, I reach between his legs, take him in my hand, and stroke him. Ben—the silent, controlled one—barely makes a noise. If I strain my ears, I can hear his quickened breaths. But his cock responds to me with vigor, growing swollen and thick in my hand even under the latex. It sends a thrill through me, and I want to keep touching him and finding new ways to make him twitch.
But I want him inside of me more. My pussy is greedy and achy. I lift myself awkwardly in the small space and guide him inside of me. As I slide down his stiff pole, I can’t help but gasp. Oh God. He feels so good inside of me. At this angle, he feels insanely deep. I grip one of the wooden slats that hold up the bunk above me and start to rock over him.
The tip of his cock grazes a place inside of me that makes me crazy. Every time I rock back on his shaft, it sends pleasure tingling through me. I have to dig my teeth into my bottom lip to keep Ben’s name from spilling out of my mouth over and over.
I need this. I need to forget everything about the world. Soon, all I can think about is every inch of him inside of me. When I grind forward, my little clit lays flat against the base of him. The stimulation makes me drench myself, and I feel a hot flush blossom all the way up my face. My shirt is still on, but my bra is pushed over my tits from Ben’s fondling, and every now and then the fabric grazes my nipples. I feel that all the way to my molars.
Even in this intense pleasure… I feel like I’m missing something. I’m spoiled now, accustomed to four hands instead of two. Two lips, two cocks, two hard, needy men. As if he can read my mind, Ben’s hands slip up my thighs. He cups
the round orbs of my ass and guides me to a faster pace over him. I obey. The mattress squeaks underneath us with every thrust, and it’s painfully obviously that we’re having sex now, but I’m too desperate to care. All thoughts dissipate when Ben’s hand ventures farther. He slips between my cheeks, and then his finger presses me there.
I can’t help the moan that escapes me now. His finger is spit-wet, and it circles my dark hole a couple times before easing inside of me. I grip so tightly to the wooden slat above me that I’m afraid I might break it. The sensation of Ben inside of me, both holes, filling all of me… it’s exactly what I need.
My cunt clamps down on Ben’s organ. I gasp and grind out my orgasm on him, pulsing and pulling at his manhood and his finger. I feel his iron-hard shaft throb inside of me, and a noise escapes him that sounds like half a moan, half a growl.
As our orgasms wind down, I hang over him, my hands on either side of his head. Ben pulls his finger out from me, and I whimper a small protest at the emptiness. We kiss here for a while, soft, lazy, satisfied kisses as he goes soft inside of me.
“That was amazing,” I whisper.
“It was.”
“I should uh… go clean up.”
“I’ll follow you.”
I want him inside of me forever, but I shift off him. We fumble around our bags blindly for a moment, and I use the light on my iPhone to give us something to see by. Ben slips on a pair of boxer briefs, and I toss my bra in my bag and use the length of my shirt to my advantage, wearing it like a dress. Ben snags a toiletry bag, I pluck out my toothbrush, and we slip out of our suite and make our way to the bathroom.
After being in the dark for so long, the fluorescent lights nearly blind me. I squint around—no one else here. We’re all alone. I take advantage of this rare moment of privacy to check into a stall, drop my panties, and try to clean up the fluids dripping down my legs. I can hear Ben disposing of the condom in the trash bin.
“Pretty sure this is next-level relationship status, by the way,” I tell him. “If you can jump straight from the sex to the cleanup phase, you’re practically married.”
“Need any help mopping up your pussy, sweetie?” Ben plays along.
I laugh and it echoes off the narrow stall. “I’ve got it. Thanks, honeybun.”
I clean myself off, flush the toilet, and step around to the sinks. There’s a line of about five sinks, side by side, and Ben has already stationed himself at one. Feeling domestic, I take the one beside him.
“Can I borrow your toothpaste?” I ask.
“Be my guest.”
I squirt some of his toothpaste over my toothbrush and wash out my mouth. I feel weirdly giddy, like a little girl at a sleepover.
“What do you think about Friends?” I ask, my words jumbled as I speak with my mouth full of toothbrush.
Ben, also brushing his teeth, has a little more decency than me. He spits in the sink before saying, “It’s good.”
“Who’s your favorite?”
“I’d fuck Chandler,” he says without missing a beat.
I nearly cough on my toothpaste foam. “Chandler? No one wants him!”
“I do.”
I roll my eyes. “I was always a Ross girl.”
“Obviously,” he scoffs. “You’re a hopeless romantic.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s not.” He’s incredibly earnest suddenly, those dark eyes on me. He turns my chin to face him, and my toothbrush pops out of my mouth. He presses a small minty kiss to my lips. “It’s my favorite thing about you.”
Somehow, I got a gay best friend and a sensual lover rolled into one. I don’t know how that happened… but it did. His rough hands choke me when I need to hurt and cradle me when I need affection. Ben should be all I need… but he’s not.
And I’m not all he needs. We’re not whole together. Not without Roland.
Sadness barrels into me like a freight train. Suddenly, my vision blurs and I’m crying again. For the hundredth time today. Boo-hoo, poor me. Concern flashes over Ben’s expression. “What’s wrong?”
“I just… hold on.” I spit in the sink, wash my mouth, and wash my face. The cold water feels good on my tear-hot eyelids, and I keep holding my hands over my face. “I miss Roland,” I choke out. I hate myself for saying that. I hate myself for admitting that I miss one lover when my other lover is right here in front of me. When did my life get this complicated?
Ben takes my wrists gently, and he lowers my hands from my face. I know I must look a wreck—my lower lip feels swollen, and I’m doing my best to keep it from trembling.
“Rory… I miss him, too,” Ben sighs. “Incredibly. You don’t have to hide from me.”
“I told myself I wouldn’t fall in love while I was traveling, you know? I knew it would just lead to heartbreak. I knew it and I did it anyway. God.” I drop my head. A teardrop hangs on my eyelashes. “I feel like such an idiot.”
“Hey. Look at me.” Ben’s eyebrows press together, intense. “You know the lie I told myself?”
I sniff. “What?”
“I told myself I would never let Roland know how I felt about him. I held it inside of me for six years. It nearly ate me alive, but I swallowed it. Without you, I would’ve taken it to my grave.”
“Do you regret telling him?”
“Not for a second. A wise woman once told me that it’s better to die regretting the things you’ve done than regretting all the things you were too afraid to do.”
“Did you mean it?” I ask, looking into his coal-dark eyes. “Will you really come to Scotland with me?”
Ben nods. “I meant it. We can leave tomorrow, if you’d like.”
“Okay.” I rock forward and lean against him, resting my head on his chest. My heart feels stone heavy, and my eyes are so puffy they’re nearly swollen shut. I’m tired of crying. I’m tired of feeling this heartbroken. “I just… need to leave. I need to get out of London.”
“It’s going to be okay, love,” Ben reassures me. He holds the back of my head and presses a kiss to my forehead.
39
Ben
Rory cries herself to sleep.
I’m sure between the crying, fucking, and whispering, we’ve kept everyone else up all night. We’re terrible houseguests. Truthfully, since I left the military, I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to bunk with a room full of people again. It seems that’s not the case. I could have asked my parents if we could stay with them for a night, and I’m sure they would’ve said yes. But that would’ve involved telling them that I got fired from the palace. I’m not ready to face their disappointment and barrage of questions. Plus, we’re safe here. No killers or assassins will come looking for us here.
No matter. We won’t be here long anyway.
Rory’s got plans for Scotland. Which is fine by me. Without Roland to tether me, there’s nothing for me here.
Rory snores lightly, her lips parted, her cheek flattened against my chest. Now that she’s fallen asleep, I’m wide-awake again. Rory’s phone lies charged on the side of the bed, so I pick it up and pop her headphones back in. I flip through her video library. She has a cornucopia of movies here. Mostly feel-good movies—romances, comedies—and a couple of travel documentaries.
Then I find her own personal stash. Her March On videos. They’re posted on her website, so I decide it’s definitely not snooping, and I click on one at random. There are a couple of shaky moments as she adjusts the camera shot; this video must be unedited. Buckingham Palace comes into view. Nighttime, but the doors are wide open and a warm, white light glow spills down the steps. Rory brings herself into frame. Her pink dress hugs around her chest and clings to her sides before billowing out around her hips—it’s the night of the masquerade ball. The wind brushes her red, curly hair into her face, and she pushes it back. She has an excited, nervous grin that stretches from one side of her face to the other.
“Hello and March On!” she says. “Your fearless leader,
Rory March, reporting for duty from Candyland.”
A chuckle escapes me before I can stop it. I can’t help it. She’s bloody adorable.
“Really! Look at this dress!” she continues. “When was the last time anyone saw something so pink?” She angles the camera down to scan the dress and wolf whistles at herself. “But wait… check this out.” She lifts the hem of her dress to show off her combat boots and then twists the camera back to her knowing grin. “This Bo Peep isn’t going down without a fight. For those of you who are wondering… yes. I got invited to the Buckingham Palace annual ball by Prince Roland. He’s… um.” She fidgets and tucks her hair behind her ear. “It’s nothing romantic—don’t get ahead of yourselves, internet friends with your internet gossip. We’re just friends… getting to know each other. That sort of thing. Anyway!”
She brightens again and slips on a black eye mask with dark raven feathers popping out of the sides. She gestures wildly toward the palace. “Who wants to come inside?”
Rory carries the camera up the steps with her and holds it in front of her as she enters the doors. The camera gets a sweeping, rare view of inside the palace. Lights twinkle off the chandeliers hanging above the party. The room is flooded with people in wild, extravagant dresses and tailored suits, all toting their strange and bizarre masks. There are long buffet tables, one topped with a full pig, oriental rugs patterning the floors, and old kings and queens staring down from their larger-than-life portraits.
I’ve walked down those halls every day for years. Yet it seems like I’m seeing it all for the first time. Even I have to wonder at it. Buckingham Palace, truly, is a world built in a dream.
“Holy cow…” she whispers, her voice barely audible, as though she forgot she was on camera. “It’s like a fairy tale.”
“Excuse me, ma’am.” The crisp, British voice seems to startle Rory. The camera jerks and fumbles as Rory moves to hide it.
