Page 85 of If Only In Our Dreams

His hands were bigger than mine. Maybe veinier too? Though I’d always had particularly veiny hands. The hair on his arms stopped just above his wrists, and while his fingers were long and dexterous, his wrists were slender. I could loop my fingers around them—something that surprised me far more than it probably should.

Ben Montgomery was warm dinners, late nights, and laughter.

He was solid, and sure, and dependable.

He was the sun rising every morning, and the moon at night.

He was caring and predictable in the way only truly good people were.

And it was easy to love him in the blanket of night, with his snores a symphony in the quiet room. It was easy to tap out a love song against his knuckles, to soak up his warmth, to pretend—if only for a moment—that I’d been lying that day I’d sat in the dark, eggnog in my belly, and shown Ben my blackened heart.

In his bed, I wasn’t poison.

I was just me.

And he was Ben.

And for a moment, I let myself pretend that this could be forever.

The next week went by in a blur. I spent as much time with Bubba and Miles as I could. And when they were busy, I went on the hunt for Ben. Sometimes he’d be at work. Sometimes he’d be out with the girls. Sometimes he’d invite me for cocoa, and then bring me to his home. We’d play with the girls till they passed the fuck out, and on one very memorable occasion, Jane even asked if I would be the one to read her bedtime story to her.

Apparently they both got to pick one a night.

Which was…honestly a fuckinghonor.

And when I’d told Jane that, she’d grinned—at the same time Rosie’s little voice piped up, sleepily from her bed across the room that I now, in fact, owed her more “monies.”

After storytime when Ben and I had retreated to the couch to canoodle, I’d asked him about the swear jar. It seemed I was practically funding Rosie’s entire illegal operation single-handedly.

“Illegal operation?” Ben asked, obviously amused.

“Well, yeah,” I agreed, more than a little pleased with my life at the moment. I was in his lap. Which was somehow even better than being snuggled against his side. I could feel his dick beneath my ass when I wiggled—and he kept making this annoyed face at me like he knew I was doing it on purpose just to see if I could wake it up. “She’s like a tiny Al Pacino.” Putting on my best and worst Italian accent, in a low voice I added, “You owe me monies.”

Ben cracked up.

Which was flattering as hell.

His whole face lit up, wrinkles exploding across it in the way they only did when he was truly overjoyed. I was more than a little proud of myself for making him snort like that. When I wiggled in his lap again to celebrate a job well done, Ben’s eyebrow came back full force.

“Don’t start what you can’t finish,” he warned, big warm hands finding my hips and squeezing tight enough to bruise. And then, like he hadn’t just said the hottest shit in the history of the world, he went on to explain about the swear jar.

“She wants a cat,” he hummed.

“A…” I was still stuck on the “don’t start what you can’t finish” thing. “Cat?”

“Yes.” Ben’s lips twitched.

“Not the kinda pussy I was thinking about, but okay,” I replied, trying to make him laugh again. Ben’s eyes widened at the same time his brow lowered. That was a new look. A Look with a capital L. Wow. Look at me go! Making him make new faces and everything.

“You don’thavea pussy,” Ben told me in case I’d forgotten. He’d seen all my bits up close and personal, so I figured it was fair he was confused.

“Fine, a bussy.”

“A what?” Ben looked confused.

“Boy-pussy.” I ground against his dick again, and he made this amazing little growly sound. “You know. Bussy.”

“Robin—”

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