Page 68 of Daring You

Inside me. Wet from me. About to spill—

Ben groans at the same time I reach my cliff’s edge.

We fall together, he and I, and when I’m catching my breath, when he’s pulling out of me, I wonder how it’s possible to feel so connected to a man who touched me with nothing but his cock during sex.

There was no stroking, no sighing, nothing to indicate anything other than a calculated, baseless fuck. He wasn’t on top of me, I wasn’t on top of him. We didn’t watch each other as we came.

So why, then, does this feel like so much more?

I spit out my panties and straighten, noticing my nipples feel a little raw from scraping over couch fabric over and over again. My own fucked up version of a hickey, I suppose.

“You get what you want out of that?” Ben helps pull my blazer all the way off, and I resist the urge to turn and fall into his hold, to catch my breath on his chest, feel his heartbeat in my ear.

“And then some,” I say over my shoulder as I bend down for my skirt.

He backs away without a word, and slips on his shorts as I’m pulling on my shirt. His cheeks are flushed like he just ran a few yards, and when he catches me looking, I’m thinking he’s up for another round.

“I can’t,” I say before my vagina betrays me.

Ben scrapes a hand through his hair. “Okay.”

I follow up with an even better line. “I have to go.”

“I may have to come with you,” he says, and at my questioning look, he adds, “I don’t know how the hell to get out of here.”

“I can show you a private exit,” I say. “You ready?”

“Sure.”

If he’s dubious over this after-sex talk, he’s not showing it, a habit from his slutty days that I appreciate.

When we’re taking the stairs, there’s a few moments where I swear I feel his hand hovering near my back, but he never makes contact.

“I’m still worried about you,” Ben says. “Chavez was making a point, coming to you instead of anyone else.”

“He won’t hurt me,” I reply with confidence. “Since I finally have what he wants.”

“And what’s that?”

We round for another flight of stairs down, but Ben’s attention won’t divert away from me.

“You don’t want to know,” I say.

“I’m here, aren’t I? Clearly, I do.”

“You made it clear last night, and this morning”—don’t think about his mouth don’t think about his mouth—“that you want to be as far away from this case as possible.”

“I said I want you to be—”

“I can find Ryan, okay?”

Ben comes to a sudden halt, and I have to backtrack up a few steps to meet him.

“Astor,” he says, in that low, snarling tone of his, “I thought I told you not to do that.”

“Yes, because I always submit to what you say.” I peel my lips back at my own realization. “What just happened up there not withstanding.”

But Ben doesn’t follow up with a predicted snipe. He’s too busy trying to read my expression, drinking in any wayward clues.

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