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There are so many things I want to do to her. Things that I want her to do to me. But when her arms come around me, pulling me closer, all I can think about is being inside her. Being home.
There’s none of the usual joking or impatience as I roll the condom on.
My hands are on the pillow on either side of her head, my eyes locked on hers as I gently move a strand of hair out of her face, wanting to see her. Needing to see her.
I watch her face as I slide all the way in, one smooth stroke that has both of us gasping in the quiet night air. And then somehow my hands have found hers on the pillow. Our fingers link together on either side of her head, and somehow the palm-to-palm contact feels every bit as important as the feel of me inside of her.
I plunge again and again, her hips lifting to mine.
“Ben.” My name on her lips is a whisper, a plea. One that I answer by moving against her just right until she arches against me, clenching around me.
I groan, and somehow this quiet, straightforward missionary sex makes me come harder than I ever have before.
I rest my forehead against hers lightly, catching my breath before pulling back and pressing my lips to her cheek.
I want nothing more than to lie beside her, cradle her to me, but reality is slowly creeping into the dreamlike sequence of the past several minutes, and I remember where we are. Who we are.
“I should go back to my room,” I whisper.
She nods.
Neither one of us make any effort to unlink our fingers.
I feel like there are things to say, but I don’t know what the hell they are, so I settle for kissing her one last time.
It’s only once I’m back in my room that I realize perhaps it’s not so much things I should have said, but thing. As in one thing.
Because for the first time since we started this whole thing, I’m wondering if one of us shouldn’t utter our safe word.
Before it’s too late.
Chapter 23
Parker
We both try to pretend that things haven’t changed. That last night wasn’t both awesome and weird.
But the ride back to Portland is strained in a way I’ve never experienced with Ben.
We still talk. We still argue over what to listen to on the radio, still play the license plate game where we try to be the first person to think of a word that contains all of the letters of whatever license plate is in front of us.
But I can’t stop thinking about last night.
About how it had felt important somehow.
And when we finally pull up to our driveway, I’m relieved. I need some alone time to think. To figure out just what to make of the hand-holding on the beach and the intense intimacy of the sex that followed.
All visions of me-time evaporate, though, the second Ben puts the car in park and I see the guy sitting on my front porch.
My mind seems to go perfectly blank, although over the ringing in my ears, I hear Ben mutter “What the hell?”
It’s Lance.
Lance is sitting on my front porch, watching with an unreadable expression as Ben and I get out of the car.
Ben pulls both of our bags out of the backseat, slinging my weekender bag over one shoulder and his duffel over the other.
Lance stands as we approach, and the look he gives Ben is definitely wary. A quick glance at Ben’s face tells me why. His usual easy smile is nowhere to be seen. My fingers touch Ben’s forearm, the gentle touch telling him to stand down.
His eyes meet mine, his expression angry. Still, he respects my request even if he doesn’t agree with it, because he merely jerks his head at Lance in grumpy acknowledgment as he passes.
“Hey, Ben.” Lance moves out of the way as Ben walks past him, and I’m pretty sure if he hadn’t, Ben would have done one of those too-hard shoulder bumps.
“We’re just getting back from Cannon Beach,” I tell Lance, out of the need to say something.
“Ah.” His smile is slight as he studies me. “I have fond memories of that place. Most of them involving sneaking into your bedroom in the middle of the night.”
Ben just put his key into the lock, but he clearly overhears because his shoulders stiffen.
No. No! And all my brain can register is oh my God! because is this really happening?
Objectively, I know Lance’s comment isn’t geared at Ben.
He can’t possibly know about last night. And it’s obvious from the slightly desperate expression on his face that his comment is an attempt to remind me of good times—better times.
And yet I have the strangest urge to run after Ben. To tell him that yes, Lance came to my room once or twice, but that was before…before…
“What are you doing here?” I ask Lance, irrationally angry at his presence.
Lance slumps a bit, probably at my less-than-excited tone. “Can we talk?”
I glance once more at Ben, only to see him slam the door shut without so much as a backward glance.
My fingers touch my forehead as a headache starts creeping up out of nowhere. “Sure.”
Because what else am I supposed to say to the guy I dated for five years? Even if he did dump me.
I lower myself to the step, and Lance frowns in confusion, probably because it’s winter, and inside the house makes so much more sense for a heart-to-heart. But I don’t want Ben and Lance in the same house. I’m not sure I want Lance in my house at all until I know what he has to say.
“Um, okay,” he says. He sits beside me, close, but not quite touching. “So Ben went with you to Cannon Beach?”
“Yup.”