Page 77 of If Only In Our Dreams

I sagged against the mattress when I was done, so oversensitive I didn’t even have the energy to push him off my dick. Grip softening, Ben kept his hand curled loosely around my dick. Like he was simply keeping track of his property.

And then he kissed my cheek.

It was a chaste kiss, in comparison to what he’d just done to me.

My head felt heavy and my limbs were fuzzy as I made a garbled little sound.

“You did so good, baby,” Ben promised against my skin, murmuring praise along my jaw, down my throat, and over the rucked up hoodie I still wore. “Sopretty, aren’t you? The prettiest. Look what a gift you gave me.” I whined, cracking my eyes open—belatedly realizing they’d been pinched shut.

Ben’s hand was in front of my face, cum-slick and messy.

“Next time, I’m going to finger you open,” Ben promised, his sticky fingers slip-sliding across my lips.

“Mmm,” I sighed, opening my mouth obediently as he fed me each finger, one at a time. Salty and bitter, the familiar taste made me groan.

“Clean them up,” Ben ordered, as bossy as I’d hoped he’d be. “That’s a good boy. Nice and thorough.”

Lapping at the pads of his fingers and down between them, I felt safe and warm in a way I never had before. Like for the first time in my life, I’d found a place I really fit in. Because after this single, perfect sexual experience, there was no denying the fact that Ben Montgomery was everything I’d ever wanted and more.

He didn’t let me touch his dick.

When I tried, he simply shushed me with another kiss to my cheek and rose from bed.

“Later,” he promised, eyes glinting in the dark. “The girls are almost up.”

I stared at him dumbly, eyes caught on the way his cock tented his pants. When he rose from the bed and headed for the bathroom, the light flicked on, and I flinched with a hiss, blocking its glare from view. “Get dressed, sweetheart,” Ben hummed, leaning against the doorway, all that gorgeous tattooed muscle on display. There was a smattering of chest hair between his pecs. It was mostly gray, which I couldn’t help but find…soooo fucking hot. “Then get some sleep.”

Still bossy, even when his dick was pointing right at me.

“Mmm,” I mumbled incoherently as I forced my own boxers back up. Ben had licked me clean at one point, though I wasn’t sure when. It was a blur of muscles and warmth, and praise.

“I’ll wake you up when breakfast is ready.”

My dick twitched one last, final time, before Ben shut the bathroom door and I heard the sound of his electric toothbrush flick on. Staring blankly up at the ceiling, I allowed myself a single, solitary moment to freak the fuck out about what this might mean for our friendship, and for Miles—and for my stay here in Belleville.

And then I promptly fell back to sleep, blissed out and happy, with the knowledge that I’d been right.

Ben was one bossy-ass motherfucker.

Especially in bed.

The days passed by in a blur after my night with Robin. And I found myself hoarding what little moments we had together as I waited desperately for Sunday to come. He’d tell me stories about Bubba when he’d pop in with coffee for Lynda and me. Apparently Miles and Bubba had both volunteered to help take down the haunted house, and in Robin’s words, not mine, Bubba had been “a riot and a half the whole time.”

Mama teased me over cannolis on Saturday. She’d already spent nearly twenty minutes last week interrogating me about Robin’s shoes at my door. And this week was no different. In between bites of pastry she’d regale me with tales of what the twins had been up to while I’d been at work, in between teasing jabs about me finally finding someone and nosy questions about whether or not I’d read the werewolf books she’d bought me.

I was pretending to read them.

If only because she’d helped with my sledding mission, and I didn’t think I could hold her off for much longer.

“You look happy,” she said at the end of the night, her eyes dancing with mirth.

“Do I?” I blinked at her, then waved as a mother and her daughter I’d seen in my office earlier that week passed by. They smiled back, the little girl sporting a gap-toothed grin. Her name was Macy and she’d scraped her knee on her way to school and been so distracted by the blood she hadn’t noticed she’d twisted her wrist when she’d fallen.

It was in a brace now, and her mother had told me earlier that week when I’d seen her again at Baxter’s bakery, that the kids at school thought Macy was the coolest kid in the second grade now that she’d survived such an injury. She’d rolled her eyes and then informed me with a sympathetic grin that I might be seeing a lot more “wrist sprains” soon, on account of the trend her kid had started.

Truthfully, I wouldn’t be surprised if that really did happen. In a town as small as Belleville the kids roamed in packs. I really, genuinely hoped that would not be the case, however. The last thing I needed was a flock of kids pretending to injure themselves so they could have braces of their own.

“You do,” Mama said, interrupting my thoughts. I lowered my waving hand, sucked in a breath of cool, fresh fall air, and offered her what I hoped was a sincere smile.

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