Page 192 of Between the Blue
“I don’t think you can help it,” I tell him.
His mouth twists to the side, and his brows pull together, making it look like he’s trying to reinforce whatever internal dam he has that’s keeping his emotions from spilling over. He nods slowly, then leans down. He places a kiss on my cheek, letting out a sigh against my skin that sends a shiver down my spine. I bite down on my lip, feeling the backs of my eyes begin to ache.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters once again.
I think he’s going to pull away as soon as the words are out of his mouth, but in the one second he hesitates, I break.
I turn my head to the side, grabbing his face and pressing his lips down on mine.
He stiffens for a split second, clearly caught off guard, but then his instincts kick in, and his mouth starts to move against mine. He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me closer. But then he seems to come back to reality as his hands clutch at the fabric on my waist and he pulls his face back from mine.
“Are you sure–”
“No more talking,” I cut him off.
I reach behind me and open the door, stepping backwards across the threshold of my apartment. Ben follows after me like an invisible string ties us together, looking down at me with a combination of concern and longing etched into his features.
I take off my jacket, tossing it onto my couch, then walk right up to Ben. I place a hand on his chest, just over his heart. His eyes zero in on my hand before looking back up at my face. I reach for his hand, placing it on my heart as well.
Something flickers across his expression, and he closes his eyes, pressing his lips together as he rests his forehead against my own.
“This is the last time,” I whisper, my voice cracking.
He nods against my forehead.
“So make it count,” I tell him.
Ben’s eyes open again.
And then he does.
It’s different this time.
Different than it’s ever been before.
Everything he does is gentle and slow, done with care.
From the way he picks me up, with one hand under my knees and the other behind my back like how you’d carry a bride, to the way he walks us into my bedroom, laying me down on the bed like I’m so fragile I might break.
From the way he removes each of our clothing, one item at a time like it’s a contest to see who can be bare last, to the way he seems to kiss every square inch of my body, like he’s trying to commit it to memory forever.
From the way his fingers trace my every freckle and curve, like he’s mapping out his own personal sky of constellations made up of me, to the way his eyes never once leave mine, especially as he sinks inside of me at the pace of someone who has nowhere to be for the rest of his life and cradles me to him like I’m the last source of warmth in a frozen over world.
And when we’re finished, and he doesn’t try to stay, getting us both cleaned up and himself dressed, placing a featherlight kiss on my forehead before he leaves, not looking back at meonce, because he knows it wouldn’t help anything, I almost ask him to stay.
I almost take it all back.
I almost tell him that I’m content to be whatever it is that he’ll let me be in his life, as long as I’m in it.
But I know that will never be enough for me.
So I don’t.
fifty-one
HIM, TEN YEARS EARLIER
“Bennett?”
