He shuts me up with another kiss. This time, his hot tongue darts out to lick the seam of my lips, demanding entrance. I open for him, wrapping my arms around his neck, seeking his warmth, his comfort. I want him to take me to bed and make me forget about the world around us for just a little bit.
Forget about the truth that waits for me in that envelope.
Benson slows the kiss, taking my hand and leading me down the hall to his bedroom. Hot desire thrums through my veins, laced with anticipation, but he bypasses the bed and leads me straight into the bathroom, releasing my hand. He leans over and turns the shower on, adjusting the settings, ensuring it’s the right temperature. Steam begins to fill the space around us.
“Shower. Food. Then we’ll talk,” he orders, pulling two towels from the linen closet and placing them on the sink.
I nod, knowing I’m not going to win with him. Not tonight. And to be honest, I need this. I need him to take control because I feel like I’m spiraling.
He presses a kiss to my forehead. “I’ll lay out some clean clothes for you.”
He closes the door behind him, leaving me to it.
***
I dress in the clothes Benson left out for me, familiar underwear and leggings I must have left behind years ago, and one of his oversized Ole Miss sweatshirts. Then I towel-dry my hair and make my way into the kitchen.
Barefoot, Benson stands in front of the stove, stirring a steaming pot. My belly dips, my mind summoning memories of the many times he’s cooked for me in this very kitchen.
“Feel better?” he asks, looking over his shoulder.
“Yes,” I reply, taking a seat at the small island.
“Butter noodles,” he declares, setting the plate down in front of me along with a fork and a napkin. “It was all I could scrounge up on the fly. I’ll run into town in the morning for some supplies.”
My stomach rumbles in appreciation. I pick up my fork and tuck in, moaning as the creamy goodness hits my tongue. I’m amazed that he can create something so delicious with a few simple ingredients.
“This is so good.”
He sits next to me with a plate of his own, then reaches over, grabs two bottles of water, and places one in front of me.
“Just one of my many talents,” he grins.
“You’re good at everything,” I say around a mouthful of noodles.
“Not everything.”
I set my fork down on my plate, wiping my mouth. “Name one thing you’re not good at.”
“Getting over you.”
I grab my water and drink half the bottle in one go. My mouth is like the fucking Sahara.
“Guess we’re diving right in, huh?” I say, screwing the cap back on.
He twists on his stool to face me. “Don’t you think we’ve wasted enough time already?”
His gaze bores into mine expectantly.
“Benson, I…”
Words evade me. I’ve never been good at expressing my feelings. Not like he can. He’s always been so open and honest. It’s a little intimidating.
My anxiety spikes at the thought of speaking the words out loud. I rub my thigh, desperate to feel a bite of pain, anything that would alleviate the pressure tightening my ribs.
Benson reaches for my hand, clasping it with his. “Hey, you can talk to me. I promise there is nothing you can say to me that I don’t know already.”
“I never meant to hurt you,” I say.
