Page 56 of Daring You

16

Astor

I knowwhy Ben Donahue carries burns.

It’s because he’s made from fire—he has to be—since heat sears his lips to mine. His tongue scorches. His body is hot, hardened with volcano ash, and my nails score across his skin, leaving red rivers of lava—

“Jesus Christ, Ben.” I push away, breathing hard.

He stands in front of me, arms limp at his sides, but his chest heaves.

“What was that?” I ask. Dumbly. Eyes wide.

He palms his mouth. Rubs. A finger slides across the inside of his lower lip like he’s still trying to taste me.

I instantly feel damp where I shouldn’t.

I’m in an over-sized NYU sweater from college. It has holes in it, probably from moths, mostly from my picking at the hem or chewing on the sleeves’ ends when I’m studying. My hair’s all over the place from constantly pushing it away from my face so it wouldn’t stick to my wet cheeks, damp from tears.

I’m so tired of crying. Over what, I’m not sure of anymore. My dead mother? An orphaned boy who’s now twenty-six? Mike? My career?

There’s a system overload going on, and I’m not sure how to stop it. All I’m aware of is, when Ben’s mouth hit mine, my mind went silent.

I couldn’t hear anything. Wasn’t thinking about anything. I just felt.

My lips rub together in remembrance, and Ben’s stare finds an inner flame at the movement. He takes a step forward, toward me, and goddamnit my eyes are welling up again.

“Don’t,” I say, though I can’t mean it.

He stops. “Astor, I…”

I hold my palm up, like I want him to stay where he is, except all I need is for him to be around me again. For his heat to stop all the cold from creeping in.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t know what I was thinking, I—”

“I want you to leave.”

Ben’s mouth shuts. He nods. “Consider me gone.”

When Ben turns, when he passes the kitchen counter with cold shrimp scampi and a sad, warmed-over, single glass of white wine, I sprint from the other side of the room, hook him by the arm, and leap against his chest.

Ben catches me seamlessly. His mouth fits to mine with perfect, explosive precision. His hands cup my asscheeks as I squirm against him, wanting, needing to be closer, and he meets my every whimper by holding me tighter.

I kiss him like I’m starving.

He tongues me like he’s handing over all the dessert I want.

Ben groans beneath me, as I dig my fingers into his hair and clutch the back of his neck, wanting deeper access, tracing every space he has. Through his hold, with us standing in the center of my apartment, he glides over my underwear.

As soon as he feels how much I want him, there’s a rumble in his throat.

“Ben,” I moan into his mouth.

He responds by spinning us, stumbling over and around, until he finds the couch and we fall onto it.

I’m underneath him, giving Ben plenty of the access he demands. My legs spread without thought, he moves my panties to the side as I writhe, and he dips.

His mouth is still on mine, and he eats my cries like candy. Ben rubs, massages, flicks, and I can’t get enough.

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