I bit back my smile and shook my head. "No. Our first time isn't happening like that."
He frowned, but his hand dropped. Then he nodded and his mouth hovered over mine, close enough to taste his breath, but just holding me there.
"Alright. Then show me what you can do with your mouth."
I gave him a confident smirk. I wasn't good at many things, but this I could use to ruin him, make him regret every second he hadn't kissed me sooner.
"Careful," I whispered. "You'll never want anyone else."
"Same to you," he said, eyes flicking to my lips. "But fair warning—I'll hold back. Or you'll beg me to take you all the way."
Except he didn't hold back, not even close.
Our mouths crashed hungry and we banged the door to my room, rattling it shut behind us.
We didn't stop when we stumbled on the bed, when he pulled me on top of him, his hand fisting my hair, tilting my head how he wanted me—making me almost go against my words and beg him to take me, just like he said he would.
No one had ever kissed me like that. Our rhythm was just there. You either have it with someone or you don't, and with us, it was seismic.
The morning after, my lips were sore and my tongue tasted like his mints. Too much kissing and biting.
He laughed about blue balls, brushed it off with the kind of grin that made it sound like a compliment, and told me he was drowning in work until New Year's.
Which was fine because it was just three days. I could survive three days.
Plus, he already proposed we could go to Onyx, knowing it was my favorite club, and even suggested he'd get us tickets.
I told myself this was it, that after months of restraint and waiting for him to make the move, this was going to be our debut.
I even built a whole movie out of it: the countdown, our first official photo, his mouth on mine while strangers screamed into a new year.
And with that in mind I bought the slinkiest, red leather dress and six-inch heels so he wouldn't have to hunch when he finally claimed me. It was destined to be perfect.
Only, it wasn't.
In those three days, his texts thinned.
I was already fluent in that, since he was always busy and appeared in the most random bursts, only to vanish again.
As much as it bothered me, I'd gotten very good at pretending that it didn't.
But on the morning of the thirty-first, he sent me a video—his face folded with sleep, voice sounding gravelly.
"Hi, Emma. Had to fly to New York. Family emergency. I'll call you tomorrow and explain everything. It's chaos now. Happy New Year."
That was it. No proper explanation. No apology. Typical.
Being in the world's shittiest position, not exactly able to hold family against him, I just gave up the fight, curled back into bed, told myself New Year's Eve was overrated anyway and numbed out with TV, trying not to overthink all the ways it could've gone differently.
Oh, and I ignored his ass.
Then, an hour later, he texted.
Ben:Where are you going tonight? With who? Send me a photo of you. I miss you. And have fun!
I didn't reply. Not until I saw the photo he posted at midnight.
He was with some girl I'd never seen. Gorgeous, with hair so black it shone blue—the kind I always wanted, but that wasn't the worst part.
