“I thought that was an obvious truth.”
“It won’t hurt for you to say it.”
“I’m not gonna fuck anyone but you.” He’s leaned down to nuzzle my ear, and his voice is soft and hoarse. “I don’t wanna fuck anyone but you. It’s only you for me, baby, and maybe it’s easier for you not to admit it, but you’ve known it for a long time.”
I gulp, a sudden wave of anxiety freezing me even as the words wash over me with deep pleasure.
He sees it. “I’m not askin’ for anything more than this one string. I promise.”
“The string was already there, Ben. You’re it for me too.”
With a guttural sound of relief, he kisses me again. Deeper this time. It lasts a while, pleasure and feeling flooding my body until I’m limp and exhilarated simultaneously.
Eventually we get rid of enough of our clothes that hecan lift me against the wall and fuck me that way. My arms and legs are wrapped around him, and he’s pushing into me hard and fast, muttering about how much he loves to fuck me, how he’s the only one who gets to do it, how he’s the only one who’s allowed to make me feel this way.
Both the motion and the words really do it for me, and I come twice before he finally lets go. He pulls out before he comes. He always does. But he yanks his cock out with the last thread of his control.
Afterward, it feels like he’s given everything. And taken everything.
He keeps holding me up against the wall, his face buried against the crook of my neck as he gasps and shakes.
When he finally lifts his head, I draw it toward me so I can kiss him gently. I don’t know what to say, but I don’t think I need to say anything.
We understand each other. We always have.
“One more thing,” he says thickly. “If that asshole—or any other asshole—says he’s at your service again in that fuckin’ tone, someone’s gonna end up on the ground.”
The glint in his eye makes me spill out in soft laughter. I squeeze him with my arms and my legs.
“You can laugh. I love to see you laugh. But I’m serious. I’m the only one at your service this way.”
20
A week later,we’re back in the storage room. Ben is on the floor with his back against the door, and I’m on his lap, my legs hanging off to one side and my face buried in his shoulder.
For the whole past week, we haven’t made it even a day without sneaking in here to fuck. Yesterday we did it twice. Today I was getting rather grumpy because we couldn’t get any alone time, even after dinner. But when everyone else was settling for the night, Ben caught my eye and gestured with his head toward the back hallway. Then he strolled casually in that direction, and I followed a few minutes later.
We fucked like starving people until we ended up sated and slumped on the floor like this.
After several minutes in this position, I say, “I guess we need to get back.”
“Why?” One of his hands slides down to cup my ass, but it’s tender, protective, rather than sexy. His body is as soft as I’ve ever felt it—like he’s relaxed, tired, and satisfied.
“Because someone will notice we’ve both disappeared.”
“They’re all asleep.”
“Not all of them.”
“No one knows or cares what we’re doing. Let me hold you a little longer.” He sighs and tightens his arms for just a moment. “I never get to do this.”
“I suppose we have fallen into a fuck-and-run pattern.”
Ben snorts. I know what every shift in his body means now, and the slight shaking means amusement. “Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.”
“What?” I’m so surprised I pull back enough to look at his face.
“My dad used to joke about that sometimes. People used to say it to describe a fuck-and-run situation.”
