Текст книги "Outside the Lines"

Автор книги: Emily Goodwin

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Ben laughs. “I won’t be calling you Pete anytime soon, but I’d be okay with the pirate part.”

“You have a thing for pirates?”

“I might. And it might have to do with the fact that the first-ever porno I watched was called Pussy Pirates.”

I can’t control the giggle that comes from my mouth. “You’re not supposed to admit stuff like that, right?”

He shrugs. “Why not? It’s not like it’s a secret men like porn. And jerking off. Though I haven’t watched porn since we’ve been together, if that makes you feel better.”

“It does,” I say and repeat his words in my head. Not the ones about porn, because I don’t really care. Some of the things I look at on Tumblr are pornographic, after all. It’s the part where he said “since we’ve been together.” We’re together? We’re an item? Officially? Is that how it works in the adult world? You just date and fuck and grow close then just assume you’re together until one day someone drops down on a knee and offers a ring?

Shit.

I need to know this.

Cosmo, you’ve failed me. Again. Except for that tip about curling my eyelashes before I put on mascara. That’s actually a good tip. Thanks for that one.

“I have a pirate costume,” I blurt, needing to say something to keep myself from freaking out. Is Ben my boyfriend? Should I change my Facebook status? Why hadn’t he changed his? Seriously, grow the fuck up, Felicity. That shouldn’t be a first thought.

“You do?” he asks, voice dropping. His hands travel up my thighs. “Want to put it on?”

I smile. “I suppose I can. But only because you’re asking so nice,” I whisper and lean forward, brushing my lips against his neck as I talk. I get up and go into the spare room, which houses my sewing stuff. The closet is full of costumes. I remove my clothes and hang then on the chair by my sewing table. The pirate costume is in the back of the closet, and it takes for-freaking-ever to get the corset laced up by myself. I laced it backward, then pretty much scraped my nipples off turning the tight leather corset around. I decided to forgo the white chemise that goes underneath.

I hike up the skirts, pull on fishnets and tall leather boots, then put on my hat and grab a LARP sword. It’s shiny and made of real metal, but the edges are dull enough that I won’t have to worry about skewering Ben as he plunders me.

I slow as I walk back to my bedroom. I’ve worn costumes a million times. I prefer them to “normal” clothes, anyway. Yet this is the first time I’ve donned something for this reason.

A sex reason.

Excitement rushes through me. Excitement, and desire. I step into the room, trying to think of something sexy to say that has to do with pirates. “Swab me poop deck” comes to mind, but there’s something so non-sexy about poop, I can’t use that line. Even if I was into anal—I haven’t tried it … yet—reminding Ben that where he’s about to stick it is next to my personal sewage system is a mood killer for sure.

“Ahoy, matey,” I say instead.

Ben sits up, mouth opening just a bit as he looks at me. I come over to the bed and he grabs me around the waist. “I’m going to shiver your timbers, baby,” he says and we both laugh. “I have no idea what that means, by the way. Just know I’m not going to stop fucking you until you’re screaming my name.”

“Yo ho—ohhh!” He puts himself between my legs, hard already.

“I kind of want to make up a story,” he admits as his tongue runs along my ear.

“You mean like role-play pirates?”

“Why not?”

I haven’t role played anything in bed before. My heart speeds up with fear of sounding stupid or messing this up somehow. “We’re forbidden lovers? I’m a pirate captain’s daughter and you’re the general of the British army?”

He nods. “Stop trying to temp me to do the wrong thing,” he says and lifts up my skirts. Is this really happening? Ben is actually into role-playing pirates of all things? Fuck being friend-zoned. If this is what the friend zone gets me, then I should have taken a seat here long ago.

Channeling my inner pirate wench makes me a bit of a dominatrix. I flip Ben over and climb on top, looking down over my tits at him. “You have to be quiet,” I say. “Or my father will hear us. He will kill you if he sees us together.”

He reaches up, hands resting on my sides, which are more pronounced in this tight-ass corset. “It’s worth the risk,” he says.

And then we’re kissing, his hard cock pressing against me, begging to be let in and allowed to plunder me into oblivion. I hold out, even though I’m craving him just as much, slowly removing his clothes until he’s lying there completely naked while I’m still fully dressed in my costume.

The light is still on next to the bed. It’s the first time I get to take my time and look at Ben, to admire his naked body. He’s like a work of art himself. Muscles and tattoos, tan skin, dark hair and eyes. Each is gorgeous on its own. Put them all together and he’s a fucking masterpiece.

And then there is his cock.

Holy shit. That dick though.

I’m not one to inherently think a penis is beautiful. They’re kinda misshaped most of the time, a little too veiny with an odd-looking mushroom tip. They serve one hell of a purpose, but to look at … not so much.

But not this glorious dick that’s at full mast in front of me. Looking at it turns me on, makes me want it inside me—my mouth, my vagina, hell maybe I’ll try it up the back door. His cock is long and thick, with enough girth to fill me completely and then some. The veins run along the shaft, and the whole thing is nicely attached to neatly trimmed balls.

His whole package is finely wrapped with a pretty bow. I inhale then bend over, hardly able to breathe in this fucking corset, and take it in my mouth, tasting salty precum, swirling it around with my tongue.

Ben lets out a gasp. I suck hard and pull up, just focusing on the tip before diving down again. His hands grasp my hair and he lets out a moan. I’m so wet and hot I wonder if I can come right here, not even being touched. Hearing Ben get off is getting me off.

I feel his cock pulsing in my mouth and his thighs tighten. I slow, wondering if I should keep going or not. I’m sure he’s close to finishing, and I really want that beautiful dick to thrust inside me. I don’t want him to be done.

I let him decide, which might be a mistake because I’m doubting he has much self-control right now. His closes his fists in my hair, letting out another moan as he comes, legs twitching. He’s breathing heavy and I’m a bit proud of how intense that seemed for him.

I slowly sit up, letting his dick slide out of my mouth. I want to run to the bathroom and spit the semen out, rinse my mouth, then come back. Is it too soon? I have to act like I enjoy this, all of this, right? That’s what women are supposed to do.

Fuck that shit.

I give him a closed lip smile and go into the bathroom. I turn on the water and spit, then quickly use my hand as a cup and rinse my mouth out. I’m back in bed in under sixty seconds.

Ben is still laying there, still panting. I don’t think he noticed I was even gone. A few seconds tick by then he’s over top of me, unzipping my boots and taking off my panties and tights. He’s on his side next to me kissing me, and I’m sure he’s glad I got that water.

He puts his hand under my petticoat, stroking my clit. I shudder from pleasure. I’m so wound up, so ready for this. He works his fingers, taking his time rubbing, circling, stroking me. I hold onto him, feeling his muscles bulge and flex as he finger-fucks me.

He pushes two fingers inside me, finding my g-spot, then moves back to my clit. After a few minutes of going back and forth like that, I’m coming so hard my ears ring and my toes tingle.

And he doesn’t fucking stop.

He moves his head between my legs, kissing the inside of my thighs before taking me in his mouth. Then his tongue lashes out and in just seconds, I’m welcoming my second orgasm.

He moves back up on the bed, holding me close. I get a moment to recover—and I need it—as he rubs my arms and shoulders. I’m starting to majorly relax when he trails his hand down between my legs again.

I moan and roll onto my back, giving him access. He’s hard again, and wastes no time getting on top of me. The tip of his dick rubs against my clit, sending me over the edge again. I lift my hips and he slides into me.

He lets out a moan and I realize he doesn’t have a condom on. Part of me doesn’t care and doesn’t want him to stop. His dick has been in my mouth multiple times; I’m just as likely to get an STD from him by sucking his cock as I am from him raw dogging it.

I just don’t want to get pregnant. I have messed-up cycles and can go way over a month without bleeding, and never know when I’m going to start until I get crumple-into-bed-with-pain cramps. Then a few hours later Aunt Flo shows up. I haven’t had a period since I’ve met Ben. I should be due for one soon.

But that’s a big risk.

He pushes in as deep as he can and all logic goes out the window. I wrap my legs around him and move my hips along with his, needing this now. I come for the third time, clinging to him as my body goes haywire. He bites down at my neck, lets out a breath, and pulls out as he climaxes, coming onto my thigh. He pushes himself against me, trying to get some sensation out of it.

He relaxes against me, his weight crushing, and buries his head in the cleavage that’s popping out of the tight leather corset.

“That was nice,” I say and run my hands down his arms. “And by nice I mean fucking amazing.”

Ben’s still panting. He rises his head and kisses me. “You’re fucking amazing.”

My heart swells and I feel myself inching closer and closer to the edge. No. I’m not falling for him. Not now. Not yet. I can’t when there is so much up in the air, so much unknown.

“Want me to get you a towel or something?” he asks.

“Nah, it’s already dripping down my leg onto the skirt. That’ll work well enough.” I use the material to wipe up my thigh.

Ben makes a face. “Sorry?”

“You should be. So sorry you do me again.”

He rolls off me, chest rapidly rising and falling. “That can be arranged.”

“Actually, you can unlace the corset and call it even.”

“If undressing you is the price I have to pay for fucking you…” He grabs me and pulls me onto him. Our eyes meet and his lips part, like he wants to say something. He kisses me instead and sits us both up. Deft fingers unlace the corset and I got into the bathroom to undress and run a damp washcloth over my sticky skin.

I want to bring up the “since we’ve been together” thing but I’m not sure how to do it. I don’t want to insult him if we have been together in his eyes. It’s not like I’m seeing anyone else, or have any intentions to.

Why can’t we go back to the days when we passed a note where you just had to circle yes or no? So simple. Black and white. Unless that fucker adds a “maybe” option to that note.

Ben has his boxers on, and he’s lying on the bed flipping through channels. He’s everything I want and everything I thought I’d never have.

“Hungry?” he asks.

“Not really, but I do have cookies.”

“You like to bake, don’t you?” he asks.

“I do,” I tell him and open the top drawer on my dresser. I pull out panties and a Captain America tank top to wear to bed. I undress in front of him, knowing he’s watching but not feeling self-conscious. “My best friend owns a bakery. She pretty much forced my love of baking from an early age.  She’s way better than me, which is good since she owns a bakery and all. Want milk with your cookies?”

“Is there any other way to eat them?”

I smile and leave the room, coming back with chocolate chip cookies and two glasses of milk. I’m surprised to see Ser Pounce sitting on the foot of the bed. He’s not cuddled up with Bed by any means, but he’s blissfully ignoring him. And hey, that’s progress. I snuggle with Ben as we eat and watch another episode of Game of Thrones. Ben says he should leave since we both have work in the morning, but makes no attempt to get up.

I put the dishes aside and we cuddle under the blankets, comfortably tangled together.

“What are you doing for the Fourth of July?” I ask lazily, close to the point of being so tired my logic filter is off. I’m not worried about asking him anymore.

“A friend is having a party,” he says and my heart sinks. “Why? Do you have plans?”

“Kind of. My parents own cabins and boats and stuff along the lake and have a huge hillbilly boat party thing.”

“Did you say boats?”

I nod. “And a few jet skis. They rent them out to people who rent the cabins. But they always save a few for the party.”

“That sounds fun.”

“It is, actually. There’s more food than you can eat and everyone is drunk. Even my mom, and she’s a trip once you get enough wine in her. I haven’t been home much lately. I’m kind of looking forward to it,” I confess as it hits me. “Erin always goes. And makes a tasty cake.”

“The one who owns the bakery?”

“Yeah. I should have mentioned it sooner so you could have gone with me.” My eyes are closed and the steady beating of Ben’s heart is relaxing. I don’t want him to leave.

“My friend’s party isn’t something I’d be sad to miss,” he says slowly.

“Really?” I sound too hopeful.

“Really. When are you leaving?”

“Sometime that Friday evening. I intended on spending the weekend there, since the Fourth is on Saturday and all. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. I know it’s a long time to be with me and all…”

“I do want to,” he says. “I like being with you, Felicity. You act like it’s a surprise.”

“Just making sure,” I add quickly. I smile, and wrap my arm tighter around him.

“I have to go to an art exhibit opening Wednesday night, and I should spend tomorrow getting ready,” he says. “I’ll be at the gallery late, and Thursday I have to drive three hours to another gallery and be gone the whole day. So I won’t get to see you the rest of the week. I’ll be looking forward to the whole weekend together.”

“Good. Because I am too.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Tissue paper crunches under my ass, which is hardly covered in a disposable thong. I shift on the foam bed, nervously looking at the door. My heart is racing. Fuck. I shouldn’t have done this. I can still get up, put my pants back on, and dash out of the salon before someone comes in, covers my cooter with hot wax, and rips my hair from my body.

There’s a knock on the door. I smooth out the white robe I’ve been given over my lap. Crap. No time.

A pretty esthetician with her hair in a tight bun comes into the room. She looks like she could be my mother, which is both reassuring and awkward at the same time. Please be gentle with me. I’m a wax virgin.

“Felicity?” she asks, looking down at the paper I filled out at the front desk.

“Yeah,” I say and swallow hard. The smell of the wax fills the air and my thighs clench shut on their own accord. I’m nervous as fuck and feel like I’m about to get a PAP smear or something invasive like that. Though, in the end, that’ll probably hurt less.

“You forget check box,” she says in a thick Russian accent. I can hardly understand her. “You want backside wax too?”

“Uh, sure,” I say. After an hour-long debate Monday night, I decided to call and make an appointment today for a wax after getting my hair dyed back to its original color of brunette. That way I won’t have to worry about shaving or having an unsightly bikini line while on the lake. And I thought it might be a nice surprise for Ben when he sees me tomorrow night, since his head is frequently between my legs.

And I hate shaving with a passion.

“First wax?” she says and sets the paper down.

I nod.

“Relax. Pain over quick.”

“Okay. If you say so.”

I lay back and squeeze my eyes closed. I’m about to freak the fuck out. Over a wax. Get it together, Felicity. I need to channel my inner Black Widow. Pretend I’m being tortured for info. Yes, that works. I’ll think about how utterly messed up that is later.

The esthetician puts on gloves and gets to work. My fingers dig into the foam bed as she cleanses my skin, dries it, and preps for the wax. My heart is pounding when the hot wax is spread onto my skin.

The strip goes on next.

Holy crap, pain is coming. I start the countdown in my head. Three, two—she pulls that sucker right off. Oh, that wasn’t so bad. I let out a breath. She spreads more wax on my skin and rips up another section of hair. I’m tempted to look but, having the feeling it will resemble something torn off Chewbacca, I don’t to save myself the embarrassment. I had to forgo shaving all week to get this wax.

It takes longer than I anticipated, and when I’m told to roll over and spread my thighs, the realization that “backside” means “butt crack” hits me like a sucker punch to the stomach and I’m so stunned I can’t do anything but lay there in terror and hope I don’t fart.

I leave feeling smooth, sore, and just a little violated. My skin begins to burn as the fabric from my panties and jeans rubs against it, and by the time I get home it’s on fire and super itchy.

Then I realize the lotion put on after the waxing was scented. I’m okay with scented stuff most of the time.

Most. Of. The. Time.

Freshly waxed, fragile skin plus a history of eczema and psoriasis going back years isn’t most of the time. Damn it. I rip my clothes off as soon as I get through the door and run to the shower to wash off what I can.

I pause in front of the mirror while the water is warming up and stare in horror at my bikini line. It’s red as hell. Yes, definitely a reaction to the scented lotion. This is the exact opposite of what was supposed to happen. I was supposed to make my fun zone more fun. Not angry and red, like it wants to kill anything that enters it.

I open my medicine cabinet and pop a Benadryl in my mouth, then get into the shower, taking a drink from the water streaming down to swallow the pill. I stand in the warm water, scared to touch my irritated skin, but curious as to how smooth it feels, and feel considerably better when I get out. I slather on cortisone cream, pull on a thigh-length nightgown, foregoing undies all together, and go into the kitchen to make dinner. I call Erin while my mac n’ cheese is cooking and tell her about my poor lady bits and how I was too terrified to even think of being allergic to scented shit.

She can’t stop laughing. A best friend, yes she is.

I eat, then crash into bed, feeling sleepy from the Benadryl. I watch a few episodes of The Big Bang Theory, get up to brush my teeth, check on my skin—yep, still red—and take one more Benadryl in hopes that I’ll wake up better.

It almost works.

I sleep through my alarm. I’m a lightweight when it comes to anything, and two Benadryls knocks me out. I half ass my hair and makeup, wear a flowy dress and my granniest panties to avoid any chaffing during the day, and take one more Benadryl since I’m looking better. I’ll counter act it with coffee and be fine once it wears off by midday.

I pack a lunch, feed Ser Pounce, and try my best not to fall asleep while driving. I trudge into the office and plop into my desk.

“Oh, like the new hair color!” Mariah says.

“Thanks,” I mumble.

“Are you okay?”

“In a sense, yes. I had an allergic reaction to something and the Benadryl is making me so tired.”

I stash my purse under my desk and fire up my computer. “I just need a few hours for it to get out of my system then I’ll be fine.”

“You’re making me worried, honey,” she says, sounding motherly. Do I look that bad? “Maybe you should go home and get some rest.”

That is a great idea, but I can’t ask to go home because of this. I blink several times, trying to get my head out of this fog. I didn’t bring coffee with me since I didn’t have time to make any. I push my shoulders back and walk to the break room.

There are fresh donuts on the table. I could kiss whoever brought them. I take two, and fill a cup with coffee, mixing in creamer. I run into Cameron on my way back to my desk.

“Sexy color,” he says and touches my hair, then he flicks his eyes to my face. “Rough night?” he asks.

“You could say that.”

“The boy toy?”

“Hah, I wish.” I take a sip of coffee; I think I need an IV of it today. “Uh, actually I got a wax and then had a reaction to the lotion. It’s pretty painful and rashy. I overdosed on Benadryl.”

Cameron looks at me with a blank face. Then he busts out laughing. “That would only happen to you.”

“Shut up,” I say dryly. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s hilarious.” His face gets serious. “How bad of a reaction? Do you need to see a doctor or anything?”

“Nah,” I say and take another drink of coffee. “The redness is almost gone, thank God. I’m just so fucking tired.”

He gives me a watch-your-mouth-at-the-office glare. “Why didn’t you call in sick? You look terrible.”

“Thanks, and I’m not sick. I didn’t even think of it, really.” I sigh, feeling the drugs pull me back. “I should have.”

He crosses his arms. “You know, you’ve never taken a sick day since you’ve been here. You won’t be behind if you take the rest of the day off.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. You can do some work from home anyway, right?”

“I can, and I don’t have much to do with this current site anyway. The client is out of town for the holiday so we can’t go over anything I’ve done for approval.”

“Then go home. Get some rest and ice your cooter.”

“Don’t say it so loud.”

He’s laughing again. “Sorry. Really, I am. Now go, get some sleep and have a good weekend.”

“You too.”

“Oh, I will. Adam’s sister’s husband’s family has a house in the Hamptons. We’re flying out right after work.”

“Classy. Sounds really fun though. I’m kinda jealous,” I lie. From what I know about that area—granted, it’s all from TV shows and movies—is that it’s too fancy for my liking. Feeling grateful for befriending my boss the week I started here, I go back to my desk, shut down my computer, and gather my things. I say bye to Mariah on my way out and consider calling Ben, but decide not to.

I don’t want to tell him why I’m leaving early, and I’d really like to go home and crash for a few hours before packing and getting dressed. Deciding to forego the rest of my coffee, I get into bed right away.

*

Four-and-a-half hours later, I wake from my drug-induced slumber. After a long, hot shower, I feel completely better. I look better too, which is awesome.

I get my packing done in under an hour, set things up for Ser Pounce to be alone all weekend (I need to remember to shut the windows and turn the AC on before I leave so the kitty doesn’t cook in case it gets hot), and call Ben. His phone rings but goes to voicemail. I leave him a message, sure he’s busy painting or sculpting or talking to people who come in to buy his expensive work, and go into the kitchen.

I need to make something to bring to the cookout, and I’ve been too lazy to go grocery shopping this past week. Lazy, and distracted with Ben. I have a lot of apples. I could make apple pie. That’s easy and tasty.

I preheat the oven and start making the crust. It has to chill for a while, and I rationalize that I should probably finish the open bottle of moscato in the fridge so it doesn’t go bad by the time I get back from the weekend getaway. I pour myself a big glass and sit at the island, scrolling through Facebook and Pinterest for half an hour before getting up to slice the apples.

The oven has been on for way too long now, and the kitchen is hot. I twist my hair up and use a pen to secure it in a bun. I’m sweating by the time I get the pie in the oven. My phone rings as I go around closing windows to turn on the air.

“Hey,” I say to Ben. “How are you?”

“Better now.” He sounds like he’s smiling. “How’s work?”

“I got out early,” I tell him. “On good behavior. What about you?”

“I’m finishing up at the gallery. I need to shower. I’m covered in paint.”

“I think you look rather good covered in paint.”

He laughs. “That’s good, because I am most of the time.”

“You can come over earlier if you want,” I say. “I’m packed. I just need to shower again because I’m hot and sweaty.”

“And why are you hot and sweaty?” he asks, voice seductive.

“I made apple pie.”

A moment of silence goes by. Then Ben asks. “Is that a sex reference?”

I almost choke on my wine. “I can totally see how it could be interpreted that way, but I actually made apple pie. My kitchen gets hot when I use the oven. Curse of a small house, I guess.” I look at the timer. “It’ll be done soon-ish. Do you want to come over and enjoy a slice of my pie? And that is a sex reference. But you can eat real pie too. I made it to take with us to my parent’s, but it smells too good not to eat now.”

“Yes,” he says right away. “Give me like an hour. I still have to pack a bag. Then I’m going to have a slice of your pie. Maybe two.”

“Or three.” I drink the rest of my wine. “See you soon.”

“Bye, Felicity.”

I hang up with a smile. My mission this weekend is to find out what exactly Ben considers me, because I really want to be his girlfriend. There’s still a stupid part of me that’s nagging about how he’s not “my type” and is totally out of my league. Not wanting to think about it, I quickly rinse off in the shower and put on a bit of makeup. I pull on a blue cotton dress—comfy for traveling—and put a pair of Toms by the door next to my bag and my purse.

There. I’m ready. Mom will be proud of how light I packed. Though realistically, I’ll be in my bathing suit most of the weekend on the boat. I don’t need much. I sit in the living room, sprawled out on the couch, enjoying the cool air rushing down on me from the ceiling fan, and watch reruns of Supernatural until Ben gets here.

“You look pretty,” he says when he steps inside. “I like the darker hair.” My arms go around him, and I pull us together. Being away for a few days reminded me how much I love being together.

“Thanks,” I say and we kiss. The timer goes off for the pie, and we both go into the kitchen to get it.

“It smells amazing,” he says, arms locking around my waist. I close my eyes and lean back into him, dropping the pot holders on the counter. My mind goes to what Cameron says, that Ben sees me as a friend material only, and I get hit with sadness.

That was unexpected.

I force a smile, trying to push aside how strongly I feel for him. I don’t want to be friend-zoned as a fuck buddy only. I want something more with Ben because even though he might be totally out of my league, he’s my total dream guy.

“It has to cool for a while,” I tell him. “It’s too hot to eat.”

His lips meet my neck and his teeth graze my skin. “I know something we can do to pass the time.”

I shiver,  whirling around in Ben’s arms and linking mine around his neck. He looks into my eyes, expression full of lust and … something else.

I’m not sure what it is, but I am entirely sure you don’t look at a friend that way.

“What do you have in mind?” I ask. I run my hands down his back and under his shirt. Just the feel of his warm skin against my palms makes me hot. Ben is spending the weekend with me.

With my family.

Meeting my parents.

My brother and his stupid fiancée.

Driving two hours and blowing off a friend’s party.

Fuck buddies don’t do that, right? It’s too much effort. He’s a good-looking guy with an impressive career. He could easily get some wherever he goes. And by now I know there is more to Ben than pussy seeking.

He shrugs. “We could watch TV, go for a walk … you know, exciting stuff like that.” His hands travel along my front and his fingers pull on the hem of my dress. “Or we could go into the bedroom and nap.”

“Yes. Nap. How responsible of us. Since we’re going to drive and all. Don’t want to nod off in the car.”

Ben takes a step back, bringing me with him “Not, not at all.” With no warning, he picks me up and tosses me over his shoulder, then runs to the bedroom. He tosses me down on the bed and pins me down with his body.

His heart is beating fast against mine and he gives me that look again, a look that says he thinks the world of me. My first thought is what the fuck is wrong with him, to look at me that way. I’m laying beneath this incredible man, this incredible man with an incredible boner that’s pressing into me, by the way, and I’m feeling self-conscious and shy like I did when I ran into Mindy fucking Abraham outside the Adult Toybox.

I close my eyes and push those thoughts from my head. Thoughts that I’m told I shouldn’t have as an adult. I shouldn’t care what other people think. I shouldn’t worry about others’ opinions.

But I do, even though I try so hard not to.

I open my eyes and see Ben still looking down at me like he wants to devour me. A moment of clarity hits me.

I do care about others’ opinions. But that list of “others” just got a whole lot shorter.

I run my hands through Ben’s hair. He matters. I feel so strongly toward him at the moment, I don’t trust myself to speak. So I kiss him, locking my lips with his, sealing in any bumbling emotional words that might spill from my mouth.

He pushes his tongue inside and pulls my dress up. Things get heated quickly, and before I know it, my panties are on the floor and Ben is lowering his head between my legs. He runs his hands over the smooth skin on my bikini line. No pain, no bumps, and no redness. Thank the fucking lord.

I watch him work, tongue lashing in and out, harsh then soft on me, until I can’t take it anymore. My eyes close and I ball the blankets in my hands as I scream, coming so hard my legs shake. Holy fuck. The more we mess around, the better he knows me and my body. And the stronger the orgasms are.

A girl could get used to this.

I’m panting like crazy, chest rising and falling as he move up next to me. I smile at him. “That was great, thanks. We can leave now. Totally rested.”

He bites his lip and smiles back before grabbing my waist. He moves between my legs. “There’s no way I’m letting you out of my sight, out of my reach, my grasp, my touch, right now.”

All I can do is nod and fumble with the button on his pants. Somehow I manage to get them and his boxers down. His hard cock springs free, hitting me in the stomach when he lowers himself onto me again. He rubs against me, letting out a soft moan. I reach for him, taking his hardness in my hand, and pump my arm up and down a few times. I contort my body to be able to keep stroking him while gently biting his earlobe. He’s like puddy in my hand. Well, not really, since puddy is soft and not long and thick and hard.