Page 71 of One on One
He squeezes my hips and presses a kiss to my shoulder as he follows me into the bedroom. I sit on the edge of the bed while he closes the door partway. His pants and shirt are in the green room, so he’s in his boxer briefs. Most of his face is shadows, but I can make out his chest rising and falling and the intensity of his eyes on me. His mouth is red and wet, like he’s been eating cherries. The perfect amount of light filters in from the green room, and at the optimal angle. I couldn’t have lit the scene better myself.
“So beautiful,” he says, which is exactly what I was thinking.
He sits next to me, takes my face in his hands, and kisses me once, softly. When he pulls away I let him guide me onto my back, and his hot eyes scrape me clean of all my armor. No worries about what my facial expression reveals about me, about what this tenderness means. Just me, melting into the mattress, and him.
He moves next to me, propping himself up on one elbow, the strong curve of his shoulder outlined in the dim light. With one hand he traces my body. Up my arm, leaving a trail of goose bumps in his wake. Across my collarbone, along my cheek and through my hair, his thumb stroking the base of my skull with the perfect amount of pressure. Down, skating across the underside of my breasts. Then he adds his mouth, leaving a trail of delicate kisses along the path from one hip bone to the other. Takes a detour to drop a single kiss on the freckle to the left of my belly button. He runs a hand lightlyover my shorts and down my thigh, squeezes one knee gently and lifts it up, so my foot is flat on the bed. Shifting, he drops his mouth to the inside of my ankle and up my shin.
It’s all gauzelike strokes from intent fingers and focused, worshipful kisses. His hands and lips are causing a chemical transformation of every inch of skin they touch. They must be. Electrons are moving, atoms shifting. New molecules form in the wake of his mouth, his fingertips. It’s no longer the same old skin and maybe never will be again. Not after being treated as reverently as this.
Ben Callahan takes care of his people. I’ve known that for a while. And for the first time I’m realizing I might be one of them. A strange fluttering starts in my chest and expands outward, until it reaches my toes and leaves my head spinning.
He touches the hem of my shorts and studies my face. “Can I take these off?”
I’m practically a puddle at this point, but I manage to lift my hips. “Yes, please,” I say in a scratchy voice, my throat full of anticipation.
My shorts and underwear come off and then his hand is between my legs. A greedy noise I don’t recognize comes out of my mouth. My hand flies up to his shoulder and squeezes, my nails digging in.
He slides down my body, and my knees fall open. He looks up at me through his eyelashes and, well, it’s a staggering image. This is why good lighting was invented. “Yeah?” he asks.
I nod, and his breath and the ghost of his stubble skim my thigh. My fingers slide into his hair and I drag the tips along his scalp.Mine.The word lights up in some primal part ofmy brain like marquee letters, travels down to my fingertips like an electric current.
And then his mouth is on me, and there are no words in my brain at all.
He’s doing the most wonderfully obscene things in the sweetest way, erasing the entire concept of time from my blissfully blank mind. Minutes or hours or days pass—numbers aren’t real—and it’s all so overwhelming I grab at his shoulders, trying to pull him up, and rasp, “Ben, I need you here,” and he obliges. He’s there with me, his eyes soft, and all I want is to be as close to him as I can get.
This is not just for fun. I don’t know what it is. But it’s bigger than that.
“You sure?” he asks, running a finger across my bottom lip.
“So sure.”
I help slide his boxer briefs off and then he’s gone for a minute. It’s like losing gravity. How quickly can you get addicted to the feeling of another person’s body? A wrapper tears and then he’s back, stroking my hair and kissing me. I direct him and he presses forward. The most perfect stretch overwhelms me, and we let out simultaneous shaky groans.
He whispers nice things about my body and the way I feel and that’s all great, but the best part is when he says, “Fuck,Annie,” because it’s so not him. Take that, Father John. He presses his fingertips between us, against me. His motions get frantic and his skin is so hot and he’s finally, finally starting to lose control.
That’s what does it for me. “Ben.” His name slips out and he brings his mouth down to mine. Not to kiss, neither of us can manage that. Instead he just inhales my panting breathsand that one final cry, like he’s trying to consume what’s happening to me. And that takes him over the edge too.
Afterward, we take turns using the bathroom and sprawl out limp on the bed, one of his legs tossed over mine. I push strands of sweaty hair off his face with one finger, and he strokes the spot on my neck reddened by the friction of his stubble on my skin.
“Your thighs are still shaking,” he murmurs lazily.
“Your fault,” I slur.
Ben has sex like he plays basketball, which is absurd but also makes complete sense. He was a point guard, so he’s always been good at setting the tempo on the court. An excellent communicator. Vocal at the right times. He pays close attention to other players’ body language, quickly discerning how to read them. He’s a good teammate, selfless, patient, happy to make an assist rather than score himself. An excellent judge of when to attack the basket and when to step back and create space. Effective at creating pressure in passing lanes on defense—okay, maybe that one’s not so relevant.
“Stay with me,” he says, his voice low and sleepy.
“We’re in my apartment. I don’t plan on leaving.”
He shakes his head. “That was not a complete thought. I’m not at my most coherent right now.”
“You’re welcome,” I say.
He runs his thumb up and down the side of my neck. “Stay with me in the hotel. In Boston,” he says, shy and eager at the same time. “One of Kyle’s fraternity brothers lives there, so he’s staying with him.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Yeah?”
