Can you come by? I need to talk to you about something.
Wha?
That simple request has me debating everything. I know what I should do. I should start my car and get on the road to disappearing forever, without looking back. But that’s the complete opposite of what I want to do.
Two years. I’d gotten comfortable in this life and I seriously don’t want to leave it. Leave Astor this way. She deserves more … maybe not the full explanation, because I could never do that, but at the very least, a goodbye.
Yeah. That’s what I’ll do. I have time. Dodge is knocked out pretty good and may want to spend a few moments weighing his options before he sings like a canary. Even if I don’t have it, I’ll make the time.
Sure, I text back, and pocket my phone.
Expression grim, I duck into my car and drive over to Astor’s place, but Locke’s confused, betrayed expression won’t leave my rearview until I turn the corner out of the lot.
2
Astor
This one? Or … this one?
I hold both questionable items up against the light, wondering if purple is more Ben’s color, or black.
Isn’t black too common? All the girls in movies wear black lingerie. It seems the go-to for seduction.
What if I want to be different?
What if…
What if all Ben sees is black lace? He might be bored. Could be less inclined to consider me, or, dear God, he could laugh. Cackle right in my face and then go running to my brother that his cute twin sister just tried to fuck him with department store underwear.
Ugh, shake yourself out of it, Hayes.
Ben isn’t like that. I wouldn’t be standing here butt-naked in my dorm room, ensuring my roommate was gone for an all-night study session, figuring out brand new lingerie options, if he were. He’s not cruel. He wouldn’t make me feel like less of a woman or like a moron for thinking he wants this as much as I do.
Because I know he does. I’ve sensed it. For so long, I’ve known about it, but haven’t figured out what to do until now. He’s my brother’s best friend. They’re practically brothers at this point, which … wouldn’t that make me…
No. Stop ruining this for yourself.
My brother has his group, and it’s not just Ben. There’s Asher, and a guy named Easton, also that weird Dodge dude that keeps trying to hang out with them. All of whom I have zero attraction to, so it can’t be simply because Ben’s forbidden fruit that I like him. He makes me laugh, is capable of enticing conversation despite his jock status, and focuses, really centers in, when I’m speaking. I don’t know any other guy who does that. Who actually cares what I say and how I say it, and then asks follow-up questions like I’ve piqued his interest.
Ben gets me. Hangs out with me without Locke being present. None of Locke’s other friends do that. He even bought me a birthday present this year, a cute football-themed rubber duck, because during a weak moment I told him about my predilection for collecting rubber duckies. They’re all lined up on a shelf at my childhood home in New York, faithfully dusted by my mom and dutifully ignored by my dad.
Ben acted like it was nothing, just a stupid, cheap birthday token for turning twenty, because it’s not like it’s twenty-one where you’d deserve a duck covered in glitter and LED lights, he’d said, making me laugh again. But I didn’t take that duck home to New York that Thanksgiving to add to my collection. Instead, I kept it here, near my bedside lamp, so every time I turned off the light to sleep, I could be reminded of Ben.
Oh, fuck, I’d better get rid of that before he comes here.
I grab the duck off the nightstand. I can’t question myself. Not anymore. I’ve already sent the text, Ben’s on his way, freshly showered because I timed it to be after his game (which I made sure he won, texting Locke about it first), and I can’t back out now. This is a now or never kind of moment, because finals are coming up, and then Christmas break. If this goes sour, we could easily go our separate ways, and I’d have a good few weeks to recover before having to face him again, and that, to me, seems like the perfect amount of time to squander any remaining mortification.
Ben’s a nice guy. I have to remember that. He’s been nothing but kind, and there’s no reason to believe he’d flip a coin and turn into a monster.
He sleeps around. A lot. The last thing he wants to deal with is some amateur who’s only done, like, three blow jobs and one quickie in high school. This could be the worst decision I’ve ever made—
Damn it, me, stop trying to ruin everything.
A light tap at my dorm room door sends a squeak up my throat, exactly like that freaking duck I got caught in the desk drawer as I fumbled it shut.
I know the Hayes charm has to be in here somewhere. Everyone in my family has it, especially my brother, and I grapple for that hidden talent as I take a deep breath, settle on the purple, and say, “Just a minute!” as I make my naked self a little less naked.
Not by much, though.
Eesh.
I do a quick straighten and tuck in front of the floor-length mirror I somehow fit between my bed and the closet on my side of the room, frown at how my pelvis sticks out and how flat my boobs are despite this bra company’s promise of Takes You Two Cups Up!
“Let’s do this,” I say to my reflection, and try not to cringe. I turn to the door. “Ben? That you?”
“Yeah,” comes the muffled reply.
I spend a few precious seconds smoothing down my hair and rallying all the self-worth I possess into opening this door with confidence. I decided that doing the subtle approach with Ben would be stupid. We’d been doing this dance for two years, and I figured it was time to up the ante. I just didn’t contemplate how this move would churn my stomach, turn my kneecaps into jelly, and nearly light my body on fire. My heart pounds so hard I’m surprised it’s leaving room to breathe.
Okay. One, two…
Now or never.
“Oh, hey,” I say when I open the door and lean on the jamb. My arm slips, I stumble, but I recover enough to smile.
Then quickly lose it.
“Holy shit,” Ben says, in the exact moment I say, “What happened to you?”
His eyes are wide, but mine are wider as I take in the blood splatter on his cheek, his blackening eye. Ben’s shirt seems all twisted, his athletic shorts dusted with dirt. He looks like he just stepped away from a particularly bad tackle on the field.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
A wolf whistle pierces through my target focus, and I’ve completely forgotten I’m wearing the sexiest lingerie I’ve ever dared to don in my young life, but I don’t care. All I notice is that Ben’s hurt.
“Jesus—get inside,” he says and attempts to cover me with his arms.
He does a pretty good job, considering they’re the size of two separate barrels, but he’s pushing me back in aggressively, like he’s embarrassed.
“I can move my own legs, thank you,” I say, pushing him off. “What happened to you?”
“Me? What…” He gestures up and down my body. “What are you doing?”
I cross my arms, suddenly self-conscious of my non-existent chest. “You first.”
“I just finished a game. Got tackled pretty good.”
He’s lying. His throat bobs the way it does when he’s uncomfortable, and he begins to pace. But, realizing the limited square footage and how close it brings him to me, he backs off immediately and freezes in place.
“That’s not what happened,” I say. I’m trying to pretend that his reaction to my body isn’t gutting my stomach.
He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s … it’s nothing, Astor. Can I get you like a—a robe or something?”
Ben’s stuttering, which he never does, but I don’t think it’s because I’m turning him on. I’m making him uncomfortable. I’m at the most pivotal point in approaching a boy I like, and I’m making him want to sprint in the other direction.
I’m going to throw up.
“I’
m fine,” I say through the insane nausea clogging my throat. But to avoid any further humiliation, I throw around my bed sheets until I find my sleep shirt and toss it on.
“Okay, uh…” Ben’s looking in any direction but me. “What exactly was your text about?”
“I think that’s pretty obvious, don’t you?”
My voice cracks, and I hate it for such betrayal, but there’s nothing I can do about it now. Nor can I control the tears going hot in my eyes.
Finally, Ben looks at me. “Shit, Astor. I…”
“It’s fine, really.” I wave him off. “Message received. This was a stupid idea, anyway.”
“What—I mean, what made you decide now? Why tonight, of all nights?”
I’m not sure what he means by that. “Because we’ve been doing this back-and-forth for ages. I keep getting hot and cold signals from you, and I’m never sure what to do with them. And I like control. I wanted answers, and I figured this was the best way to go about it.”
His attention skates down my legs before meeting my eyes again. “Astor, you have no idea…”
“And now I know,” I say, steadier now. “Which is great. We can go our separate ways without any more confusion. No further questions about whether or not you like me—”
“Fuck.”
I startle at the sudden, lethal curse.
After a brief, molten stare, Ben prowls forward, hooks my neck, and takes my mouth for his own.
I mumble some kind of surprise—I think I do—but the heat of his lips, the silk and slide of them, turn every stiffened muscle of mine into supple, moldable clay, and I fold into his arms. One of his hands slide around my waist and pull me closer, firmer, so there’s no question of how he feels.
And I can feel him. The hard ridge through his jeans, heating my abdomen despite the clothing in between, demanding my attention. Ben has me in a war, between his tongue and his dick, and I can’t decide which one I want to submit to first.
I move my lips in tandem with his, exploring with my tongue, grazing against his teeth and feeling his groans vibrate through my throat. I can’t believe it—can’t fathom that my dreams are coming true, that Ben actually wants me. He trails his hands down my body, my too-thin, weirdly tall, skeletal frame, and he’s touching it like it’s art. He grips my flat butt, squeezes like it’s as ripe as a peach, then lifts me so my legs wrap around his waist and I can pilfer his mouth further.
I want all of him. I want to memorize everything about his body that’s somehow in my hands, mine to control, mine to pleasure and savor and challenge.
He wants me. Ben Donahue wants me.
Ben peels our lips apart, his hot breath replacing the heat of his mouth. With viper reflexes, he grips my jaw between his thumb and forefinger and says, “This is how I want you to remember me. You’ll look back on this night, and you’ll remember how I stroked you, sucked on your clit, made you moan, made you mine. I want you to use that mind of yours to recall all of it. Every detail. I know you can.”
I want to say, huh? but his words hold way too much meaning for such a Neanderthal response. He’s telling me something, or trying to, and I can’t decipher what it is. There’s an urgency in his stare, eerie and unsettling, because he never looks at me this way. Sure, he’s been impressed, even stunned by my wit sometimes, but he’s never held my chin like this, made me look upon him with such sobriety that it’s a wonder I still feel drunk on lust.
“Say yes, Astor.”
I swallow, but the grip he’s maintaining on my jaw is anything but frightening. “Yes.”
He won’t stop searching. “You mean it?”
“Yes. Yes, Ben. I’ve been wanting this forever. Wanting you for longer than that. I’m going to remember how I made you groan, how you begged for more, how I rode your dick so hard and wet and made you come.”
I don’t know how to do any of that and I blush so hard when I say it, but with his gaze going from earnest to dark with promise, I feel I’ve hit the nail on the head and gotten rid of whatever fear is driving him forward.
He quirks his lip. I know he likes challenges, dares even more so. Locke’s slipped up a few times and told me the messed-up things he and his friends do just to pass the time. And I understand, in order to appeal to Ben, I have to be just as confident, just as up for anything, as he is. If it means saying words and pretending skills I possess none of, I figure that’s the least I can do to snag his interest.
“Show me,” he growls, and I go damp at the sound.
Just having him go hard in my presence is enough to saddle my confidence with a rocket ship into space. I slide down his body, out of his hold, and go at his jeans, unbuttoning them and pulling them down.
He smiles and hangs his arms at his sides, doing nothing to help. As if the big reveal of his dick is enough to make me gasp and sputter and clap. I muffle a snort at the thought, but he catches it and his smile wanes thin.
“No—it’s not, I just…” I lick my lips, marveling at how easily I can go from sex kitten to awkward aardvark. “Had a thought. It’s nothing. Completely unrelated to—”
“Dropping my pants is making you have unrelated thoughts?”
“No!” Am I ever fucking up my dream moment. “I … if I told you, I’d have to explain, and it’s only going to make this worse…” I lick my lips again.
His pupils dilate at the movement. “I can tell you exactly where my thoughts are. I want those lips on my dick. Right now.”
My lower lip curves at his command, as if it’s already curled around him, and my teeth bite down like they can’t contain themselves a second more until my mouth is filled.
I get back to business. Pulling down his briefs, his dick spears forward, and yes, it’s impressive enough to deserve applause. I don’t gasp, though. My eyes don’t go wide at the sight. I’m Sex Kitten Astor. I’m above all that. Instead, I wrap my hand around and squeeze, intensely focused on how soft he is, how impossibly silky something so hard can be.
Ben throws his head back and groans, his hips meeting my movements on instinct. I enjoy the power, the unobtrusive realization that I hold this man’s pleasure in my hands. When I add my mouth to it, his shudder is felt all the way down my arms and into my bones.
“That’s amazing. Keep going,” he murmurs.
I smile at how easily I can make him buckle, how well I’m doing despite my lack of experience. How much I need to thank my roommate and banana YouTube videos for the ways my fingers grip, how to use the natural lubricant of my saliva. I’m cocky now, loving how the firmer I squeeze, the more he moans. I use the rush to my benefit, make sure he’s looking, and open my mouth wider to take all of him in.
I gag. Sputter. Choke. And—oh, God—cough.
“Astor? Astor, you okay?”
He bends to my level, but I’m still coughing, fist to my mouth, eyes scrunched shut because while I can hear his concern, all I’m feeling is my blood moving utter embarrassment through my veins.
“Hey. Easy, there.”
Something cold hits my hand, and I peek enough to see Ben’s gotten a bottle of water out of my mini fridge and unscrewed it.
“Take a sip,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” I say hoarsely, then take a large gulp of water. “I’m so sorry.”
“For what?”
“For … for doing what I just did.”
Ben flicks a grin. “For choking on my cock?”
I groan into the water bottle, its iciness doing nothing to stifle the heat in my cheeks.
“Come here,” he says, laughing softly, and pulls us into a lean against the bed.
We’re still on the floor. Ben is naked from the waist down, but he’s naturally confident, used to being exposed in front of women, so why would I think drawing me up against his chest would give him any hesitation?
I notice the burns on his thighs. Can’t help but stare at them while he rubs my shoulder and tucks my head under his chin. I’ve always known of the one on his arm, but never consider
ed there’d be more, swipes of the devil’s nails across his thighs.
And … he’s still hard.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” he murmurs into my hair. “Are you overthinking things?”
“I was trying to be what you’re used to,” I admit, still tracing his scars with my gaze.
“Why?”
The honest confusion in his question makes me pause. “Because why would you want anything else?”
“I want you,” he says. “You, Astor. Not any other girl, not the ones in my past. Just you.”
He tucks a finger under my chin again, but this time, waits for me to allow the lift, to rise off his chest and look at him.
I stare at him, waiting for him to come to the obvious conclusion, the one that’s been spinning its glee inside my head since the first time I met Ben Donahue and realized I was crushing on someone completely out of my league. “How could I ever be enough?”
He squints. “You’re serious?”
“I’m not flawless. I’m more sharp than smooth. My nose is too big. No matter how hard I try, zits keep cropping up on my face—”
Ben lays a finger across my lips, and while it shuts me up, it’s not what he intended. His eyes are deep, penetrating, his blue more pale than mine, and he angles his head like he can’t decide what to do with me.
“I can’t believe that’s how you see yourself,” he says, unblinking. “Because all I notice are those gorgeous eyes, and behind them a gifted, talented brain. Yeah, I’m saying you’re smart,” he says when I snort.
“Because that’s what you like to fuck. Smart girls,” I can’t help muttering.
“Hey.” His eyes grow shadows from his brows. “I’ll be the first to admit I haven’t been too discerning. But I’ve stayed away from you. Not because I have no attraction—I have too much. You’re not simply beautiful, Astor. You’re alluring. Compelling. I’ve picked your brain for years and still feel like I have layers to go. A mystery I constantly want to unravel. You know what that does to me? It makes me insecure. You make me unsure of myself, because how come something so addictively attractive doesn’t want me?”
Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection) Page 33
