by Watson, Lucy
“Ready?” he asks, hanging the strap of my purse on his broad shoulder, making it look miniature.
Can a man look rugged carrying a miniature purse? Yes. Apparently, he can.
“Yeah, but you don’t have to carry—”
Before I finish telling him that he doesn’t need to carry my purse, he swoops me up in his strong arms. My breath catches, and my stomach flips with the motion.
“I can walk,” I clarify to his jaw, my arms circling his warm neck, my gaze flicking to the people staring at us.
“So can I,” he responds, his intent gaze fixed ahead.
And walk he does—like we’re in a reenactment club and tonight’s An Officer and a Gentleman night.
Not seeming to give a shit that we’re in a police station, he carries me past the curious looks from the officers, past the waiting room of interesting “full moon” people, through the parking lot, finally stopping at his Bronco.
All without saying a word.
All without a glance my way.
All with a perma-scowl on his face.
Okay, maybe our reenactment sucked, and love didn’t lift us up where we belong, but that doesn’t stop my heart from swelling at the way he’s holding me.
My arms tighten around his neck when he bends down and opens the car door. I jostle a bit as he maneuvers me, setting me on the seat. Then he belts me in.
This is the part where I should say something, but words flutter through my mind, none of them sticking.
So instead, I just sit here, staring at his long eyelashes like a freak while he rechecks the seatbelt to make sure it’s tight enough since the last person who sat here was a giant, probably Jesse. Jesse who might have lost his ride home because of me.
Ben hands me my purse, his penetrating gaze sending a tingle up my spine. He shuts the door, and I take in a deep breath, telling myself to get a grip and stop picking apart his actions.
If there’s a hidden meaning in Ben’s actions tonight, I’m going to find it, or create it. I’m really good at that last one.
He left his party to come get you…
He would’ve done that for anyone.
He carried you out of a freaking police station…
He’s a Marine. Carrying people is probably his default mode.
He slides in and shuts the door on his side, his steady gaze landing on mine. “You good?”
My heart pangs at his question. No, I’m not freaking good. Far from it. Not because of The Carl Incident, or the deep scrapes setting my stomach on fire, or my cold, tender feet that are probably covered in Ebola by now.
But because I think I might be falling in love with Benjamin Crawford. In love with Benjamin freaking Crawford.
I exhale a heavy breath at the unsettling thought.
“Yeah, thanks.” I nod with a forced smile.
He returns my nod with a grunt, reaches in his pocket for his keys, and we head home. Home.
* * *
In what feels like a short commercial break, we’re driving down the long gravel driveway, pulling up to the garage.
Ben cuts the engine, let’s out a heavy breath, leaning back in his seat. Even under the dim garage lights, I can see he’s upset. He’s making no move to get out, so maybe this is his way of telling me he wants to drop me off but feels bad. The guilt I was going to feel tomorrow sits heavy in my gut.
I unbuckle my seatbelt. “I’m sure you’d rather be out with your friends.” I lean forward and turn my eyes to the stars. “It’s still kinda early,” I state, studying them like I’m freaking Galileo, before turning back to his profile. “You can just drop me off and go back… I mean don’t feel like you have to stay with me or anything.”
Please stay with me.
His sharp gaze slices to mine, his low brows pulled tight. “Already told you who I wanted to be with tonight.” His deep voice quiets. “You’re the one who went out to hook up, not me.”
His words blindside me.
“What?” I’m at a total loss.
My mind races through the last conversation we had. And finishes on the beautiful smile he gave me at the end of the hallway before he walked away with a piece of my heart.
“Doesn’t matter,” he grumbles, before sliding his gaze to the steering wheel, pulling the keys from the ignition.
“It matters to me, Ben.”
Frustration fills my chest, it seems like everything in my life has to be so freaking complicated, or maybe this is how it is for everybody, and I just suck at life.
Probably the latter.
“Yeah?” His gaze meets mine. His voice darker as he grits out, “That why you left to go mingle, because it fucking matters?”
A picture of him and Massage Parlor Barbie flashes in my mind, igniting a dormant fire.
“Oh, you mean like the hook-up you almost took to my bed?”
“It wasn’t…” He exhales and looks away. “That was before.”
“Before what?”
A thick silence fills the space around us, the density of it suffocating.
He shakes his head and mumbles, “Forget it.”
Then he’s out of the truck, the door slamming behind him. My adrenaline spikes as I push open my door and jump out. Not giving a shit about the sharp gravel digging into my feet, I slam the door shut.
See I can slam shit too.
“Don’t tell me to forget it.”
He rounds the Bronco and stalks up to me, shadows playing in the masculine lines of his face.
“I’ll carry you. There’s probably broken glass or some shit.” He points to the gravel.
“Before what?” I repeat.
Tell me you care. Tell me I matter. Because you matter to me. More than you should. More than I want you to.
“Forget it.” He shakes his head again, and my heart sinks. “Come on.” He holds out his arms and motions impatiently with his fingers for me to get moving.
And I know then what I am to him. I’m a loose end. A burden. A pain in his ass. An obligation Rose left behind.
Moments I’ve spent with Ben flicker like a silent movie in my mind, and without the noise, I’m able to see them for what they really are, just vignettes of time that will never make something whole. No matter how hard I try to splice them together.
Anger at myself for being so stupid spikes my pulse. A coldness that has nothing to do with the night air seeps into my pores and freezes my heart.
This is when I have to let go.
This is when I have to say goodbye.
While I still can.
“You’re right, Ben. It doesn’t matter.” I push past him. “I’m the asshole who thought it did,” I continue to myself.
I welcome the feel of sharp gravel biting into the sensitive souls of my feet. It takes away from the ache forming in my chest.
Size 12 shoes crunch gravel behind me. And I’m not gonna lie, I quicken my pace, wanting to run from this. From Ben. From this house. Even from Rose. I don’t want any of it. I try to call on the numbness that’s saved me from feeling shit like this, but it doesn’t come.
“Fuck, just let me carry you.”
“Don’t you worry your little head about my feet, Ben. They’ve survived worse,” I state icily.
A low grunt-growl slides across my neck. Then a small yelp is pulled from my throat as I’m swept up into Ben’s arms again.
“So fucking stubborn,” he growls as he stalks to the porch, his dark eyes fixed ahead.
“Excuse me! I’m not yours to just pick up whenever you want. I’m not yours at all.” I give a half-hearted struggle, my pulse moving to my throat. “So put me down!”
His glares down at me, and his nostrils flare. Then his arms tighten around me before he climbs the stairs.
My eyes are fixed on his beard and long eyelashes.
I fucking hate that he takes my breath away.
“Do you have some kind of carrying-people fetish? Because that’s not really my thing.”
He ignores me, b
ends down, and opens the front door. After kicking it shut behind us, he continues down the hall like it’s totally normal that he’s carrying me inside the house.
“What are you doing?”
“Fuck if I know,” he mumbles under his breath.
“Well, that’s reassuring,” I mumble back. Unease mixed with anticipation flutters my stomach. I’m trying to find a logical situation that warrants Ben carrying me down the hall.
Nope. Not a one.
He stalks past the bedroom, pushes open the bathroom door, walks in a few steps, and sets me down.
“I don’t need to use the bathroom, but thanks for your concern.”
His jaw clenches as he bends down and opens the sink cabinet, to haul out the first aid kit I put away this morning. Seems like a lifetime ago.
“What are you doing?”
“You have cuts on your stomach,” he says, grabbing a towel from the rack. I ignore the hint of concern in his voice and push down the hope that’s trying to surface.
“They’re just scrapes.”
He runs the towel under the water. “Take off the sweatshirt.”
Umm… yeah, not gonna happen, buddy.
“Why?” I ask, folding my arms over my chest.
“Why do you think.” He scowls.
“Are you freaking kidding me right now?”
He faces me, damp towel in hand. His eyes flash with something I can’t name. “No, I’m not fucking kidding you right now,” he repeats, his smoldering glare licking at my skin like a blue flame.
“You sure? This sure feels like a bad joke.”
He exhales a sharp breath. “Why do you always have to push me? For once, can you just do what I fucking ask. Is that so fucking hard?”
“Push you?” My voice shakes with anger. All the times I wanted to push him about what’s happening between us slam against me with the force of a tsunami. “Why do you care, Ben?” I motion to the towel. “Tell me why you’re standing there with a freaking towel in your hand.”
“You have cuts on your fucking stomach, woman. That’s why.”
“Tell me why you give a shit! Do you like me? Am I your friend? Are we more? Do you want more?”
His gaze drops to the towel in his death grip.
It spikes my pulse. “I’m so tired of this! Tired of our games. I don’t want to play anymore. You win.”
His eyes slice to mine, a firework of emotions going off in them. I shake my head with a heavy breath and push past him. My throat burns with tears as I step into the hall. I’d rather be alone forever than feel like I’m feeling right now. Whoever said it was better to have loved and lost was a lying sack of shit.
“I can’t,” Ben’s booming voice stops me in my tracks.
I spin to face him. The raw emotion in his eyes steals my breath.
“I can’t tell you how I fucking feel because I don’t have words for this shit!” He points to his head and snarls, “Because I’m all fucked up if you haven’t figured that out.” He runs a hand through his thick hair, his chest rising and falling. “Because I’m ready to fucking kill whoever put those marks on your body. Fucking end whoever touched you like that.”
He grips his chest, his nostrils flare. “My heart fucking stopped when you called tonight. Fucking stopped.” He takes an angry step toward me. “So why don’t you tell me how I fucking feel. Tell me what this shit means.”
It means we’re more.
The hallway melts away. I cross the distance between us and push up on my tiptoes. My fingers slide around the back of his neck, and I bring his mouth to mine. I feel his breath catch against my lips. His tongue pushes into my mouth, and I hear his deep moan.
I fucking love the sounds he makes.
I move my tongue against his, desperate to coax more sounds from his throat.
His fingers dig into my hips, pulling me against him at the same time he deepens the kiss.
He tastes like beer and Ben.
He kisses me, wet and deep.
My fingers grip his soft hair.
His hands grip my ass, pressing me against his thick hard erection. The feel of him slams a flash of lust through my veins. He lifts me a little and devours my mouth in a crushing kiss. I moan against his tongue, letting him know whatever he gives me, the soft, the hard, the pain, the beauty, the ugly, I want it all.
Then I’m weightless as he carries me down the hall. His kisses turn slow and thorough, and I know this is how he wants to take me, in a way that will mark me as his.
I take over the kiss while he lays me down on our magic bed, his body following. It seems like a lifetime ago, I was faux-cuddled in his strong arms while he snuck blackmail-selfies of us. There’s nothing fake about this moment. It’s real. Almost too real. I moan at his delicious heaviness pressing down on me. I wrap my legs around his hips, drawing him closer.
Leaning on his forearms, Ben breaks the kiss, looking down at me. Even in the moonlit room, I can see tenderness and hunger in his hooded gaze. This is how I want to spend eternity. Like this with him looking at me like that.
“You good?” His voice is rougher than I’ve ever heard it, his breaths heavy with lust. He’s asking permission. He’s asking me to trust him with this part of myself.
I place my hand on his bearded cheek. He’s so fucking beautiful like this. “I’m good,” I whisper in a voice so husky it sounds like someone else.
His eyes search mine. “Don’t know if I can give you more than this.” His words are raw and honest. Every muscle in his body feels tense and pulled tight with a coiled energy.
I’ve had declarations of forever-love whispered in bed, under the stars, in front of three-hundred guests. Nothing has ever felt as real as the way he’s looking at me right now, the way he’s holding me, kissing me. Maybe this isn’t forever-love, but if I can just live here in this moment, it will be enough.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, running my thumb across his full bottom lip.
He takes in a shaky breath and then takes my mouth in a gentle kiss, rolling his thick erection against me, hitting exactly where my entire body is centered, pulling a needy moan from my throat.
We kiss. And grind like teenagers. And kiss. And grind. Deeper and harder with more urgency, sweet friction feeding this fire between us. I touch the hard ridges of his arms and back, the feel of his straining muscles kicking up the intensity of my need.
He breaks the kiss for a few suspended moments, panting against my lips, and then sits back on his haunches.
Everything about Ben seems bigger from this angle. Holding my gaze, he undoes my faux-leather pants. I lift my ass as he slides them past my hips and off my bare feet until I’m left in lace panties.
I lean up on my elbows, feeling insecure, as his heavy hands run up my legs, pushing them farther apart, the rough calluses and bandage adding another layer of sensation on my skin.
His fierce gaze holds mine. “Take off the shirt.” His voice is husky and thick. “I want to see you.” His hands skim the inside of my thighs, slowly heading where I crave him, his eyes traveling over me.
“I should go get cleaned up,” I say on a shaky breath, wishing I didn’t spend the night sweating on the dance floor like a swamp creature.
“Later.”
“But—”
“Shortcake,” he says with a raised brow telling me not to argue with him.
“Ben,” I counter matching his look. Or at least I try to.
The corner of his lip ticks up in a crooked smile. “You can call the shots next time, babe. Right now, you’re gonna take off your shirt.”
Thinking about next time, I fall back and pull off the sweatshirt, taking my crop-top with it, exposing my matching lace bra. The flash of embarrassment at being exposed to him like this disappears when our eyes meet.
“You’re fucking perfect,” he says as his hungry gaze rakes down my body. “So fucking perfect.” The heat in his eyes melts away thoughts about the dirty scrapes on my stomach and Ebola feet.
&
nbsp; When he’s looking at me like that—I feel perfect.
I want to tell him he’s perfect too, that he’s the sexiest man I’ve ever seen, but the words dissolve on my tongue as he bends forward and tugs down my bra, taking a nipple into his hot mouth, pulling deep. My fingers tangle in his soft hair.
His beard scratches my skin as he sucks and works his tongue. The sight of him like this, his mouth on me, is almost too much. And at the same time, not enough.
“I want to feel you.” I tug his shirt up his back, wanting his skin on mine.
He grabs the back of his shirt one-handed and tugs it off the way men do, blindly tossing it away, his attention back on my nipple in the next instant. Seeing his sharp edges against my curves, his dark scarred skin against my pale body, causes a flush of desire to spread to my toes.
“Ben, please,” I moan, writhing beneath him, gripping his arms as he moves to the other breast. His eyes meet mine as he flicks the tip of his tongue over the pebbled peak.
For the first time in my life I don’t want foreplay. I’m so desperate to feel him inside me, I throb and ache with it. Which I didn’t know was really a thing. Until now. Until Ben.
“Please, what?” he asks on a dark whisper before his other hand plays with the neglected wet nipple at the same time his mouth wraps around the one he’s hovered over.
“Just do it,” I moan in sweet torment as I try and bring him closer with my legs.
Who throws out Nike slogans during the heat of the moment? This girl.
He smiles over my nipple. “Do what?”
Make love to me. Fuck me. Kiss me. Fill me.
“It,” I repeat like an idiot.
“Got a lot of things I’m gonna do to you, Shortcake.” He circles my nipple with the tip of his tongue. “You’ll have to be more specific.” He’s messing with me. And I love it.
I love us like this.
“Sloth would know what to do,” I tease, breathless, lightly scraping my nails down his strong arms, thinking about the T-shirt he bought me.
He gives me a dark grin that sends a thrill through my body, then shifts his weight and runs his finger lightly along the wet material of my panties, over where I need him to fill me, sliding up to where a million sensations coil tighter and tighter.
