PENIS.
HIS PENIS WAS TOUCHING MY LEFT BUTT CHEEK.
I froze. All that separated us was my whisper-thin leggings and the material of his pants and – possibly? – boxers. For a brief second, I could feel hisentirelength.
Oh, Jesus.
He shifted suddenly, leaning left to either get a better grip on the light or change the angle he held it from, and I felt his dick start to slide away from me. I almost whimpered. My hips swiveled seemingly of their own accord, tracking his motion, desperate to follow.
Panicking, I shifted my legs and moved forward, breaking our contact. Had I really just been a hair’s breadth away from grinding my ass into his crotch?
Get ahold of yourself, woman!my brain shouted.
Heh. I’d rather get ahold of him,my libidoanswered.
Eight months. It had been eight months since another person had made me come, and right now, I realized just how much sexual need could build up in that time. I was breathing like I’d run a set of sprints. My pulse was lodged in my throat. I became hyperaware of my breasts, cradled within my bra. Of the lines of my underwear tracing either side of my sex. My clothes felt too tight. The room was uncomfortably warm.
Unable to stop myself, I turned my head slightly to the left, following the sound of Ben’s soft exhalations. Our noses nearly brushed, that’s how close he was. Mother of God, was he leaning toward me right now?
Our gazes met. From this distance, his eyes looked like galaxies. In the very center of them were the dark stars of his pupils, surrounded by a nimbus of pale, white gold. Toward the edges, flecks of green appeared, emerald, mint, seafoam, and olive tones intermingling to form an outer corona of vibrant color edged in black. I wanted to launch myself into them and get lost in the expanse just beyond.
“Hi,” he said, the warmth of his breath rushing over my lips.
His greeting snapped me out of it. “Sorry, I just…”
I just what? Had to look at you? Needed to see your eyes up close? Wondered if you’d kiss me if I turned this way?
“I stripped the screw tip,” I finished, lamely, and ducked out from under his arms to retreat toward the toolbox.
I found the spare screwdriver and swapped out my still perfectly fine one – which he would notice was fine later, UGH – and turned back around. He was standing right where I left him, hands braced on the fixture, shoulders bunched, forearms flexed, traps on full display. If he were a painting, it would be titledUp Against the Wall,because that’s how everyone would want it when they looked at him.
“You coming back over?” he asked, glancing sideways at me.
I forced myself forward.
“I won’t bite.” He grinned, a mischievous edge slipping in that I feared he might have learned from me.
I pointed the screwdriver at him. “Don’t you dare go Austin Powers right now.”
“Hard,” he said in an offensively bad English accent.
I laughed. The sound was hysterical, but I was just so grateful that he had broken the tension that I could have kissed him. Still, I was careful not to actually touch him when I ducked back under his arms.
“You know what, on second thought,” I said, “why don’t you undo the last screw and I’ll hold the fixture. You can probably see it better from way up there.” I couldn’t deal with being framed by his arms right now. Or the feel of his body just inches from mine.
“Sure,” he said.
I offered the screwdriver up to him. He took it, and I stepped forward, away from his heat, to hold the fixture in place. He lifted his hand to remove the last screw. His fingers trembled slightly. It took him two tries to fit the tool head into place. I’d worked alongside him for weeks, and I had never seen him fumble like this. His hands were so steady that I’d made jokes about how he could have been a surgeon.
The sight of his shaky fingers completely undid me. It gave me hope. Hope that this wasn’t all in my head. That he might be as affected by our proximity as I was.
The screw came loose. I pulled the light fixture off the wall and ducked away to leave him with the remaining wires. I set the ugly brass lamp in the middle of the floor, next to the one he’d removed on his own. That done, I straightened, my mind a total blank, my body on autopilot as I picked up the painter’s tape. I turned and walked toward the far edge of the room, hoping to work on the opposite side as him.
Space. I needed space right now.
“Ella,” he said, a dark note in his voice that I’d never heard before.
I stopped dead. Turned to look at him. He leaned against the wall, his shoulder propping him up, arms crossed over his chest, biceps straining against his t-shirt. The expression on his face made my pulse flutter. I heard athudand realized the tape had slipped from my fingers.
