I like bringing order to chaos, so the activity helps settle my mind.
I need to find Ben when I’m done here and apologize again before we go to bed. He’s been my friend and support and protection for years. He shouldn’t be a target for my moods.
I’m an asshole. Maybe I’ll never be anything else.
“Annabelle.”
I’m on my knees, leaning over to scoot a large box into the corner, and the voice startles me so much I jerk straight, jumping to my feet and whirling around. My hand flies to my gun holster.
Then I drop it when I see Ben standing in the doorway,his eyebrows drawn together in a broody, silent question.
“You startled me.”
“I can see that. Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize. I do. Sorry I talked that way before. I was about to come find you to tell you I’m sorry.”
“You’re forgiven.” His features relax into a familiar warmth. He steps into the small room and closes the door, clicking a latch to lock it.
I frown at him, confused by him trapping us in here.
When he takes a few more steps, closing the distance between us, I’m no longer confused.
I know what he has in mind, but I ask anyway, “What are you do?—?”
The final word is swallowed up in a kiss. He has to lean down to reach my mouth since we’re standing up, but he manages it. He holds my head with one hand and my ass with the other as he works his lips against mine and then slides a tongue into my mouth.
My body jolts into excitement, and I reach up to clutch his shoulders. But the sound of voices from down the hallway cuts into the pleasure.
I push instead of pulling him closer. “Ben, wait.”
He pulls back immediately, but he’s not happy about it. He’s frowning again, his blue-gray eyes searching my face. “Why aren’t I allowed to kiss you?”
“Because you’ve got more than kissing in mind.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Someone might come this way. Someone might hear. They’ll know.”
“Who the fuck cares if they know?”
“I care. I told you before. We need to keep this… this thing separate from the rest of our lives.”
He takes a few fast raspy breaths, his nostrils flaring slightly. His eyes have darkened. “So, what then? It’s hands off unless we’re on our own, away from the rest of ’em?”
It sounds terrible. Terrible. But I’m whirling with nerves and unanswered questions. “Maybe.”
“Annabelle.” Just the one word. My name. In a tone I’ve heard so many times before. Disapproving. Almost tired.
“Don’t Annabelle me and give me that look. I told you this can’t get in the way of what we’re here to do.”
“I don’t think it will get in the way.”
“Maybe I do.”
“Do you?” He’s simmering with something strong but holding it back the way he always does. He has more self-control than any man I’ve ever known.
I have no idea what to say to his question. It feels like my whole world—controlled and crafted as tightly as a weapon—is spiraling into chaos.
