I give him a look. "A real doctor."
He cocks a brow at me, faux-incredulous. "You know who you're talking to? Split-second decisions. Lives in my hands daily. And you dare sexualize me?"
"You've got the perfect ass for it," I counter, assessing the hard curvature with my grip. "And you're like a sex hydra. Cut off one orgasm, you grow two more heads."
He snorts a laugh.
"Seriously, was that your third?" I ask.
"Fourth," he says. "Don't ask me how. Never happened before. You?"
"Seventh," I say proudly. Then frown at him curiously. "Is that normal? For a guy?"
"You complaining?" His smirk curls as we slide down the bed, our voices sinking into that post-storm velvet lull.
We never cover ourselves, ever.
He doesn't need it with his body temperature and I'm always tempted to steal another look at him.
Like now, as he tries to push down his glistening erection, but fails. Still a lightning bolt, impossible to ignore.
He shakes his head at it. "I'm getting blood work done tomorrow. Check my testosterone, thyroid, whatever biochemical chaos you've unleashed in me."
"So it's my fault," I say, pulling a face.
"Partly," he says right away. "I think it's all those years when I wanted to do it and didn't, all stocked up in there."
Suddenly, my thoughts rewind: Eight years, eight years of dodging every glance, every brush of his hand, every stupid story I told myself to survive. How did it land us here? In this sacrilegious moment?
Lucy might be right, though. This does feel a lot like addiction, and I know that's dangerous.
Ben presses his hand over mine on his chest and fixes his eyes on me. "You need to know something... I was always loyal before. Always. With all my partners. I'm not the asshole, not the villain you think I am. Even though..." A sharp exhale. "NowI am."
I kiss his shoulder lovingly. "It's okay, I know you. You don't have to explain. I didn't mean what I said."
Relief flickers in his face, brief as a match. "Good. But let me explain."
I go still because he has that dense look that makes you listen.
"I know I messed up when we were friends. I never made a move. I thought you didn't want me to. Thought you were scared of dating me and honestly—same." He gives me a crooked smile. "When you left, I kept replaying everything, what I should've done... but you were gone, living your life. I wished I could take everything back, but it was too late. So I... went dark. It changed me."
"How?"
"Pain rewires you. I used to think you could just be a nice guy, but life doesn't work that way. Sometimes you go against your own judgment, your own morals. Because when you get another chance at happiness, you take it... even if you're an asshole..." His jaw tenses as he clears his throat. "I'm not exactly proud of what I'm doing right now. But I also don't regret it. One bit."
I hold his gaze, so he knows I mean what I'm about to say. "Same. I would never allow myself to do this, unless it was you."
A small smile breaks on his lips, and his lower half finally rests, so I seize the moment and press another kiss to his shoulder.
"Will you tell me about your marriage?"
That changes the mood completely.
His breathing slows and he thinks longer than usual before he sighs. "I hate badmouthing her. She was there in my darkest moments, patient, holding the pieces I couldn't."
I nod, tracing the faint scar above his eye—the one he got when he was seven running through his uncle's villa in Sorrento and slid through a bush. For some weird reason, it calms him down when I do it.
"It's not about talking bad about her," I whisper. "Just say it like it is. You're good at that."
