Page 31 of Rebellious Hearts
I pushed my fingers into my entrance, pumping them a few times, but it wasn’t the same as Ben’s fingers—long and strong and able to reach all the right spots when he pumped his hand into me.
I returned to my clit and flashed on Ben again, his muscles bulging as he bucked his hips and thrust into me, harder and faster.
I mimicked the imagined thrusts, matching the speed and intensity as I stroked myself and the heat of the water and my orgasm coiled together until my whole body tensed, and I came, crying out and shuddering.
My orgasm rippled through me, sending wave after wave of pleasure. I arched my back and twisted to the side, curling in the water, closing my legs around my hand as the orgasm took my breath away.
When the waves receded and my breathing slowed, I opened my eyes.
I was back in the bathroom, in my own tub, alone.
I gasped, trying to bring my breathing and my heart rate under control as I reached for my wineglass.
This wasn’t a good idea. I couldn’t make myself want him this much.
But it had just been in my mind, right? Ben wasn’t here and I hadn’t done anything wrong.
Who said I couldn’t fantasize about him?
Although I desperately wanted it to be real. But that couldn’t happen again, and with what a grump he was now, I was determined to not let him get to me in any way.
If he did, I could just do this again.
And pretend that it was enough.
9
BEN
The dining room was good enough for our meeting. Tall windows with velvet curtains framed the harbor view after which the town was named, and the mahogany tables had high-backed upholstered chairs around them.
“Oh, wow,” Sofia breathed. “All this for just a dining room. Even chandeliers.”
“What else would a dining room like this have?”
“I don’t know,” she said, tilting her head as she thought about it. I looked away because it was fucking cute. “I guess chandeliers make sense.”
We walked to a table and sat down. The table was set with fine china, polished silverware, and crystal wineglasses.
All of it was what I would have expected in a dining room like this, and would have demanded for a meeting this important, but Sofia was in awe of it all. She touched her slender fingers to the rim of the wineglass and smiled.
“You know, we always had the cheap glasses at home, you know, the ones with the bubbled rim?”
I nodded.
“My aunt would try to make it sing the way crystal glasses would, but it never did. Because it wasn’t the real deal. So she would always say it squeaked the way the bath squeaked when she scrubbed it.” Sofia giggled at the memory. “She always called our glasses ‘scrubby,’ and my mom would getsoangry. My mom was all about image.” She glanced up at me, her eyes still laughing. “It’s not as easy to uphold a fancy image with glasses from Walmart, but my mom did her best.”
“I’ve never made a wineglass sing,” I said.
“No?”
I shook my head.
“How much time do we have before Mr. Thompson arrives?”
I blinked at Sofia.
“Maybe a minute or two. Here.” She filled my glass with water from the pitcher on the table, and hers, too. She dipped her finger in the water and ran it along the clean-cut edge of the glass. A moment later, a clear sound rang out.
