Page 63 of If Only In Our Dreams

And with that, he left me to my own devices.

I locked the door with shaky hands, put the new clothes down, and twisted back toward the shower. Not before making a detour to glance at the mirror though.

It wasn’t that I was…necessarily insecure. I mean, I was. In a lot of ways. I knew I wasn’t a super palatable person? I spoke too fast and too brashly. I didn’t think things through. I ran. I always ran when things got hard.

But physically I knew I was…you know. Pretty okay? Symmetrical. Pleasing enough I’d never had trouble getting people to want to fuck me, or be fucked by me.

At least, I used to think that.

Until the sleepless nights caught up to me, and I kept forgetting to eat—and my ribs became Ribs with a capital R, and I stopped wanting to be naked in front of anyone at all, even myself.

Ben thought I was gorgeous though.

And for a second, I tried to see what he saw.

To see past the peppered scars I’d gotten from random accidents on set. To see past my protruding ribs. To see past the concave of my stomach, and the moles and freckles that my label always edited away.

I smoothed a hand over my chest and the nipple piercings I’d gotten when I was nineteen and sucked in a breath.

I looked tired.

I always did.

But I did look better than I had when I’d come to Belleville a week and a half ago. I’d had more sleep here than I had back home in months. Maybe my therapist was right? That getting away from the stress would help.

Maybe I hadn’t been lying when I’d said it was?

Either way.

The permanent bruises beneath my eyes were still there, but the hollows were less…saggy? And I looked…damn. Despite my nerves, I looked pretty happy.

And that was as unfamiliar as my dick deciding it wanted to play.

Which was to say, very unfamiliar.

That had been one of the first things that’d stopped “working”. My doctor said it was normal in cases like mine. That the libido would suffer. It was more than a little relieving to know that it maybe wasn’t so permanent.

I brushed my teeth three times because I was terrified of my breath stinking around Ben. And when I showered, I jerked off quickly—even though I really did want to drag it out. Ben had said to use whatever I wanted, so I did. I soaped up my hair with his shampoo—sandalwood, yum. I scrubbed myself with his body scrub. Used his conditioner to get my dick nice and slippery, to fuck my fist till I sobbed into my shoulder and spilled down the drain.

Yeah, it felt weird to do that in a shower where there was a bucket of toys in the corner.

But beggars couldn’t be choosers.

And I didn’t know when the next time I’d get an opportunity like this would be.

When I was dressed and drowning in Ben’s clothing, I felt quite a bit better. Water droplets slipped down the back of myneck from my wet hair as I made my way toward the kitchen and the scent of Heaven.

Ben was sitting at the table with his own plate in front of him. Beside him was an empty chair, and a second plate piled high—even higher than his own. Bacon, chocolate chip pancakes (not potato chips), and a giant mug with coffee called my name. A siren’s song.

It was like he’d timed everything perfectly so that it would be ready for when the shower shut off.

“Looks delicious,” I said eagerly, taking my seat with a happy thump. I wavered after a second thought, glancing at Ben to make sure I hadn’t been too loud. “Sorry.” I didn’t want to disturb his calm.

“Sorry for what?” Ben arched an eyebrow. “You complimented my food. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I sat down loud.”

“You sat down loud,” Ben echoed, like the words were in another language. He set his own coffee mug down, twisting to look at me with an expression I could only describe as fond. “Sweetheart, there’s nothing wrong with the way you sat down.”

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