Page 67 of Daring You

This isn’t love.

It’s forgetting with pleasure.

Ben lets go of me long enough to pull off his shorts—no boxers—and toss them somewhere to the right. I’m too busy drinking him in to notice if it draped over a lamp or a first edition George Orwell.

He’s as lengthy and gorgeous as I remember. And unfortunately, I can’t use my hands to explore him.

I make the mistake of meeting Ben’s eyes, which contain too much emotion for me to want to decipher.

He says, “Astor…”

“No more words, Ben. No strings, no consequences. Okay?”

Ben hesitates, like he’s unsure whether we should make the same mistake again. But he’s not dealing with a naive, clueless, twenty-year-old anymore.

I tip my chin up in challenge. “You have me restrained. What are you going to do now?”

Like liquid fire, his eyes go molten.

Ben closes the gap and goes straight for my skirt, unzipping it roughly as I continue to stare him down. It pools at my feet, my heels spearing it as I regain balance. Ben looks down, sees the black lace of my underwear, and smiles.

One by one, he undoes the buttons on my shirt, exposing a matching, scalloped lace bra. He peels the lace back, but leaves the underwire where it is, so my breasts are exposed and pert, nipples instantly hard as they hit the cool air.

Ben goes to his knees. I close my eyes and tip my head back in anticipation, and when I feel his tongue around my hip-bone, I moan in acquiescence.

The tearing sound, the sudden yank and jerk, have my eyes popping open.

“Ben—“

He stands, my flimsy underwear in his teeth. I open my mouth to communicate my approval, but he doesn’t give me time. He flips me around and bends me over the arm of the couch.

“You want a quick fuck?” he asks behind me. I hear the sounds of crumpling and unwrapping, and spend a few wasteful seconds wondering when he scrounged around for a condom before answering.

“Yes.”

“You want it rough?”

I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

His next statement is in the form of a thrust. I cry out before he reaches around and presses my underwear to my mouth to muffle anything else.

I’m bent over the arm of the couch, my face is mashed against the velvet cushion as he pounds, my arms are still encased in my blazer’s restraints.

I’ve never, in my life, been so turned on.

I feel every inch of him against the walls I’ve erected, both mentally and physically. My mouth pools with saliva as I forget to swallow around the lace, but my vocal cords do all the heavy lifting.

Words are pointless, useless, so I moan and wriggle and try to take him deeper. Ben’s hands cup my hips and squeeze, the sounds of our skin smacking like our own musical accompaniment to a sexual percussion.

“Astor…fuck…I’m gonna…”

Guess I’m not the only insanely horny one in this moment.

I can’t speak. Instead I close my eyes in bliss and arch my back, letting him know I’m getting there, too.

Faster, harder, he plunges, and I feel him all the way to my heart. But—forget that—focus on the pleasure.

Focus on his dick.

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