We don’t stop making out until the windows fog and my dress is halfway up my legs. When we finally slow down, he just holds me, breathing heavy, his eyes dark with heat.
I’ve never felt like this before. Wanted. Right down to my bones.
Ben brushes a stray strand of hair off my cheek, his thumb soft against my skin.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he says, voice ragged.
I smile, high on adrenaline and power.
“I think I do,” I whisper, kissing him soft and slow, one more time.
He pulls me into his lap, the gearshift digging into my thigh, but I don’t care. I’m exactly where I want to be.
For once, nobody can touch me. Nobody can break this.
It’s me and Ben, in the dark, wrapped up in wanting each other.
And I dare the world to try and stop us.
Chapter 6
Ben
The sun is barely upwhen I come to, half-tangled in the sheets, the world outside already alive and humming. The first thing I do, before my feet even hit the floor, is grab my phone from the nightstand. Habit. Or maybe addiction. Either way, it’s all because of her.
As if on cue, a notification lights up the lock screen, April’s name front and center. My pulse kicks up like some lovesick teenager.
I’m so pathetic.
Good morning; can’t stop thinking about you.
I let it sit there for a second, reading it over and over, soaking in the way her words make everything inside me loosen and tighten all at once. Then I thumb open the thread, scrolling up through last night’s conversation, re-reading the parts where she called me “dangerously sweet” and I called her “trouble in a sundress.”
I run a hand over my face, yesterday’s stubble scratching my palm, and try to think of something clever. Something that doesn’t make me sound completely whipped. But my brain is still half asleep, and the only thing that comes out is honest as hell.
I could get used to waking up to you.
I stare at my own words for a second, then erase them. Re-type. Erase again. Fuck’s sake.
Finally sending:
If you’re not careful, I’m gonna start expecting these every morning.
Cheesy, I know. But she’ll probably love it.
Before she even replies, I’m on my feet, the wood floor cold under my feet as I move through the quiet house. The kitchen is flooded with morning light, the sun’s slanted rays coming through the blinds. Sunlight like this makes my tattoos look more vibrant. The old ink and new art blending together.
As always, coffee first.
I slam the filter into place, dump in the grounds, pouring way too much, but who gives a shit, and hit the button. Roasted bitterness floats through the air, waking me up faster than anything else.
My sketchbook is already open on the counter, a half-finished drawing of a lily, a callback to April’s tattoo, taking up the page. I couldn’t sleep last night, kept thinking about how her skin felt under my hands, the way she gasped when the needle met her skin. The way she trusted me to turn a joke into something beautiful. That’s not just infatuation. That's an obsession.
The phone buzzes again.
I’ll try to restrain myself. But no promises.
There it is. That little giddy rush of something inside me. The way she teases, like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
