“Who?” I pressed, unable, for the life of me, to imagine.Penthouse?High Timesmagazine?
“Dakota Young,” Ben said.
I actually felt like the world was slipping underneath my feet.“Dakota?”
Ben nodded. “I told her I was going to pitch the idea to you, and we’d need backing. She said it was the best idea she’d ever heard, and you were born to be a leader.”
Dakota—my idol, my mentor—believed in me. My heart was doubling in size, or it was melting, I couldn’t tell—something was happening inside my chest.
“She said she’d support you with the maximum amount of money she’s allowed, and she’d stump for you, write op-eds for you, be in commercials for you. Anything you need.”
Somehow, knowing that Dakota thought I could do this made it real. I swallowed past the lump in my throat, but my voice still came out low and throaty. “I’d need a staff. I’d need someone to run the campaign with me.”
At this, Ben dropped back onto one knee, hands clenching at his sides—as if this was what he’d really been waiting for. “Choose me.”
I tugged at his jacket, trying to pull him up, but he didn’t budge. “Ben, don’t be silly. You wanted to run for office yourself. Ben Laderman vs. the world.”
He shook his head. “I realized I like being behind the scenes. Especially if you’re out in front. Let me be your campaign manager.”
My hands relaxed against the collar of his jacket. “You’re serious?”
Ben’s eyes were bluer and brighter than I’d ever seen them. “My dream of politics and my dream of you have always been intertwined. I go where you go. I believe in what you believe in. I believe inyou. Nothing could make more sense.” He closed his hands around my wrists. “Stoner, I see you trying. And I love you so much. Let me be your assistant. Turn Texas blue with me.”
Ben was giving me something even better than love: he was giving me commitment. I didn’t even question how he’d known that’s what I needed, because at this point, I was beginning to realize that by opening myself up to him, I’d finally let him understand me, the way he’d always longed to. And this was the result.
I dropped to my knees so we were level, and pressed my hands to the sides of his face. “I should’ve known you’d come back, Ben Laderman. You always do.”
“No more leaving,” he said.
“No more leaving,” I promised.
He took a deep breath, steeling himself. “Is that a yes?”
“It’s a yes,” I said, and every ounce of tension and rigidness melted out of Ben’s body. His shoulders sank, and he covered his face with his hand. I felt the weight of something like destiny or history or rightness settle over me. Who knew? Maybe it was even a brush of approval from my father, like a kiss across my forehead, from wherever he was.
I pulled Ben’s hand away and cupped his face, sweeping my thumb across his cheek. “I want you to be more than my campaign manager.”
“Name it.” His voice was hoarse.
“Be my boyfriend.”
Looking at Ben’s face was like looking at the sun. His smile was impossibly wide. “I’ll be more than that, Stoner.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I said, and he rolled his eyes, seized my face and kissed me.
I put my heart into the kiss. All the impossible hope I’d carried for years; all my love and admiration for the man in my arms, the good and patient and kind person he’d grown into. The feelings twisted up my insides, and I twisted my hands through his hair, drawing him closer, and closer—I would spend my life inventing new ways to get close to Ben Laderman.
He kissed me hungrily, as if he could make up for lost time through the sheer power of his mouth crashing over mine, his hands running the length of my body. He leaned back onto his elbows and I moved with him, sitting in his lap, bending over to capture his mouth.
I could feel him pressing, big and hard, under the denim of his jeans, and rotated my hips against him, sliding my hands under the world’s sexiest Stoner for State Senate T-shirt to feel his flat, muscled stomach.
“It scares me,” I whispered. “The way you make me feel. The possibility of losing you.”
“I know,” he said breathlessly, pulling my shirt over my head. “But you’ll get over it. And you won’t.”
I tugged at his shirt and he pulled it off by the neck, exposing his broad, tan shoulders, his abs, the trail of dark hair down his stomach.
“I’m not very good at love.” I pressed my hands against his chest, pushing him flat against the deck, and bit his neck, tasting the salt on his skin. He was so warm, like he’d been flushed, heart beating overly fast.
