The blue of his irises is different from mine. His are deep andbottomless, reminding me so much of a lake we visited as children with our moms, tucked away in the mountains of Washington surrounded by a formidable wall of ancient trees. His lashes kiss as he blinks up at me, his hand sliding up the back of my thigh.
A not-so-subtle gasp pulls into my lungs. My blood is pumping a chaotic symphony as I wonder if I was mistaken in skipping tights in favor of the slouchy wool of the knee socks I chose today. Maybe it would have been easier to stop this before it turns into something that can’t be undone.
“You are mouthwatering,” he whispers. “Do you know how incredibly difficult it was to behave when I had you in my lap a week ago?”
His confession is contagious, and the feel of him is dizzying and calming and leaves me wanting to say every true thing I’ve ever thought. “I’m jealous,” I whisper. “I was and I think I always will be, and I’m so fucking angry at you for making me feel that way.”
His hand continues to stroke my thigh, moving higher with every pass until his palm is on my ass and one side of my skirt is bunched up around his wrist.
I don’t want to talk anymore. I want us to be lips and hands and teeth, but if I don’t just say this, I might let it fester until the jealousy is bigger than anything I can control. “And it’s silly,” I continue, “because how bizarre is it to be jealous of people you hooked up with at a time when you weren’t even in my life?”
“It’s not silly.” He is genuine and seems to come from a place of absolute understanding.
“I have no claim over you,” I tell him. “And our marriage isn’t even real.”
“It feels pretty real to me right now.”
That sends my heart galloping, because what if? What if this really was it?
“Has there been anyone else for you?” His voice is throaty and demanding. “Before me?”
I nod slowly. “Two other guys. One from high school and one from the weekend I toured campus. Just them, though.”
“I. Hate. Them.” He makes a strangled noise. “I hate them for touching my wife.”
Those two words sink into me like sharp canines, turning what had been a gentle, swirling sense of desire into something more urgent and—
His fingers knead into me and the smallest of moans slips past my lips.
I felt so brazen that night at the party. It was all liquid courage, of course. But it had felt so simple. I wanted him. His body seemed to want me back.
But now, the jumble of emotions is messy and unsure. I spent so many hours today imagining all the things he found desirable about every person he’d been with.
The self-doubt running through my brain comes to a halt as he brings his other hand to my ass and uses the leverage to lift me, forcing my legs around him as my body slithers down until I’m seated against his waist.
“Ben—”
The rest of his name is lost to the collision of our lips, his tongue rolling against mine in a bruising kiss.
I wrap my hands around his neck and relish the pleasure of his hard abdomen between my legs. He spins us around and my back is pressed into the other side of the stacks. My ass rests partially on the edge of a shelf. It gives me enough leverage to shamelessly rock against him, the contact sending a shudder through my body.
“Fuck,” he gasps into my mouth.
My two prior sexual encounters were very… to the point, andneither included anything that was remotely satisfying for me. Now I am drunk on the possibility of there being more to sex.
Still holding me close, Bennett lowers me to the floor and drops to his knees between my thighs. His hands slide up my ribs and cup my breasts. My skirt is rucked up around my hips, showing a glimpse of my dark red mesh underwear. His breath is ragged as he feasts on the sight of me while I linger on the taut swell in his jeans.
With a smirk, he catches me staring and thrusts forward against me. The contact is so teasingly brief that it’s painful and he has the nerve to laugh.
“Take that sweater off,” he tells me as he drags a finger down my sternum and pulls down on the V-neck. I reach for the hem but then hesitate for a moment. He’s settled in between my legs, otherwise I might squeeze them shut to hide what I know is a growing wet spot on the gusset of my underwear. The fluorescent fixture above us feels like a spotlight and I wish we could crawl into a pocket of shadows.
“Do you want to stop?” Bennett asks in the most casual way. The same as he might sound when inquiring about my day or if I need a ride. It’s neutral. Pressure free. A flash of a fuzzy memory hits me as I recall the weight of Tate’s hands on me and how, now, in comparison, that felt all wrong.
This is nothing like that. I see my hesitation for what it is: embarrassment. Nerves.
“What if you don’t like what you see?” I ask.
He smirks again and then leans down, brushing a strand of hair out of my face, with his elbows braced on either side of my head. “If the situation in my pants doesn’t speak for itself, every little glimpse of you I have seen over the last two months has set my brain on fire. I am so turned on by you, Clo, and I guarantee you that nothing in my imagination will ever match the perfect reality that is the body beneath me right now.”
