The doorbell rang at seven exactly.
Of course it did. The man had military precision built into his cellular structure.
I crossed the living room. Wiped my palms on my jeans, which I’d changed into after rejecting the dress because the dress had ended up being lessthis-old-thing?and more likehey there, sailor, I haven’t had a date in six months. I was hoping the jeans saidI barely thought about this, which was the biggest lie my wardrobe had ever told.
And I was also hoping I’d stop regularly dialoguing with my clothing because that couldn’t be good.
I opened the door.
Ben stood on the front porch. Clean shirt, dark, collar open. His hair was damp at the temples like he’d showered recently, and the last of the evening light caught the green-gold shift in his eyes that I’d been trying not to catalog since the day I’d met him.
My mouth opened, and everything I’d been holding since Trish had invited him over came pouring out.
“Hi.” I actually waved at him like I was Forrest Gump or something. “William’s at Trish’s, and I realize this looks like I engineered some kind of setup, and I didn’t—well, Trish did,but I didn’t stop her, and I should have told you William wouldn’t be here because I think maybe you said yes to dinner because of him, because of Jolly, and that’s fine, that’s actually wonderful, but if that’s the case, then this is just dinner between neighbors, and I don’t want you to feel like I?—”
He kissed me.
Not slow. Not careful. This was immediate and decisive—his hand finding the back of my neck, his fingers sliding into my hair, and his mouth on mine with an intention so focused it shut down every wrong conclusion I’d built in two days of overthinking.
He stepped forward and I stepped back, and the door was behind him and then it wasn’t, because he’d closed it without breaking the kiss, and the sound of it latching was the last clear thing I registered before my brain went quiet.
His other hand found my hip, and he pulled me against him. The full length of his body pressed to mine, and the hardness of him against my stomach confirmed what I’d been too afraid to believe.He wanted me. The evidence was undeniable.
He broke the kiss just far enough to look at me. His breathing was rough. His hand was still on the back of my neck.
“I didn’t come here for William.” His voice was low, stripped down to nothing but the truth. “I came here for you.”
There it was. Blunt and plain and leaving no room for the wrong interpretation. Every careful theory I’d constructed—the good neighbor, the kind man, the person who kissed me because I was crying and then realized his mistake—collapsed under short words delivered in a voice I felt in my spine.
I pulled him back down to me.
This was the kiss that changed everything. He moved his hands from my neck to my waist, and when I opened my mouth against his, he made a sound, low and involuntary, the noise of restraint cracking, that sent heat flooding down through my belly and lower.
He spread his fingers across my lower back and lifted me into him, and I wrapped my arms around his neck and felt the muscles in his shoulders bunch and flex as he walked me backward into the kitchen.
My lower back hit the counter. He didn’t stop. His mouth left mine and found the side of my neck, his teeth grazing the tendon there, and I gasped and gripped his shoulders and felt his hips press forward in response. The counter edge was hard against my spine, and I didn’t care.
I couldn’t care about anything except his mouth on my throat and the pressure of his body pinning me to the counter and the growing ache between my legs that was making it difficult to remember my own name.
I pulled at the back of his shirt. He stripped it over his head in one motion, and the sight of him, the broad planes of his chest, the flat ridges of his stomach, made my mouth go dry. I put my hands on him. Ran my palms down his chest, feeling the heat of his skin, the hard muscle underneath, the way his stomach contracted when my fingers reached his waistband.
His breath left him in a rush. He lifted me onto the counter with both hands and stepped between my thighs, and the new angle put the hard length of him exactly where I needed pressure. I rocked against him, and he cursed under his breath, one word, rough and unpolished, and his hands went to the hem of my shirt.
He paused. Looked at me.
I pulled the shirt over my own head.
His eyes dropped. His jaw went tight, and I watched hishands open and close once at his sides before he touched me, cupping my breasts through the thin fabric of my bra, his thumbs finding my nipples, and I arched into his hands and felt the sound I made vibrate in my own chest.
He unclasped my bra with one hand and it fell away between us, and then his mouth was on my breast, his tongue drawing slow circles around my nipple, and I dug my fingers into his hair. I moaned at the sensation and stopped pretending this was something I could control.
“Ben—” His name came out ragged, half a plea.
He lifted his head. His eyes were dark, pupils blown. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
I bit back a hysterical laugh. “If you stop, I’ll actually die.”
Something broke behind his expression. The containment he wore most of the time dissolved, and what replaced it was hunger, open and unguarded, aimed entirely at me. He pulled me off the counter, and I wrapped my legs around his waist and felt him hard between my thighs as he carried me out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
