I smirk bitterly. "It flopped for a reason."
"No. They didn't read between the lines," he insists, unexpectedly firm. "Can't blame them. They don't know you."
I nudge him with my chin. "Go on, keep patching up my fragile ego."
It's meant as a throw-away joke but instead of laughing, he shifts on the bed, suddenly too intent.
"Okay. Your books read like poetry. Not only i the rhythm, but in the way you bury your feelings into metaphors. I think you hope people miss them, but at the same time, I think you hope they don't. You don't hide in your stories the way you do everywhere else and I like that. But that's not the part that got me..."
"What is?" My voice comes out thin.
A beat while he runs absentminded circles on the side of my pillow.
"The way you write about love. I can tell you don't want ordinary. You want to drown in someone's hunger, be left raw.Not some storybook romance. You want to be torn apart." He looks up then, and his eyes burn into mine. "It's like you love the way I do."
My face instantly flushes hotter. Heart? Reassembled.
Over the years, I've had some amazing reviews, even awards, but none of it comes close to Ben saying we speak the same love language.
"Wow. Thanks," I say, voice barely there.
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth and just as the bass outside slows to a hum, his face goes serious. "But if you ask me, you don't sleep any better."
Translation:You're restless. Because you think about me late at night. Because I know you do.
And I hate that he's right and that I can't tell him my body chose him in sleep and about that wet dream. But I can't. Can't.
"It's late. You must be tired. I'll go," I whisper and shift toward the edge of the bed, but before I can slip away, his hand catches my wrist and holds it.
"Let them have their fun. Sleep here."
I go still, waiting for him to smirk and say he was kidding, but there's none of that. Just those black eyes, steady on me, proving he meant it.
"Have you lost your mind?"
"Why?" He frowns and shrugs. "We're friends. You've slept over before."
"Friends," I echo.
Sure, we are. I'll always wonder how he is and what he does in that exact moment I happen to think of him.
But friends don't live under your skin three years after they've touched it.
"That was different. We were in a different situation," I remind him, my voice stern.
"We don't have to tell anyone."
He lets the words hang between us.
Does he really expect me to say yes because we can hide it? Or does he know exactly how close I am to breaking every rule I thought I had?
No, Emma. This is not friendly. Do. Not. Pretend. Do. Not. You can't undo this.
Ben tilts his head, watching me for a beat. Then he gets up, leans over, and tugs on my hips, sliding me down slowly, down the linen sheets, down until I'm flat beside him.
"What are you doing?" I whisper, shocked as my pulse stutters.
"Let's sleep," he says, and it doesn't sound like a suggestion, but a command.
