Page 85 of The Legend Next Door
Prove it.
I look up, studying the curtains in his room with an eagle eye, eager to find any sign of life. Fabric twitches. A set of drapes is roughly opened and the broad-shouldered façade of Ben Stirling appears in the center of a window frame, slightly obscured by glass and backlit by a soft, golden light. He has his phone in one hand and the other raised above his head as he leans against the window frame and looks down where I stand.
Oof.
Umm, just a quick FYI, Ben. Us bookish folk kind of have a thing for the old door/window-frame lean.
You should really use it sparingly.
Is that right?
His head dips and he smiles, face slightly illuminated by the light of his screen, and fuck, he’s so hot I can’t take it.
Curiosity gets the better of me.
Can I ask you a question?
Of course.
How did you know how to do that thing with your fingers?
Ben smiles again.
Did you like that thing?
I came so hard all ten of my toes cracked at once.
Only your toes?
I’m sorry, baby. I’m still learning, but I’ll get better. I promise.
You’ll see. Next time, I’ll make your toesandyour fingers crack.
And the time after that, it’ll be your toes, your fingers, and every bone in your spine.
That’s some powerful imagery right there, that’s what that is. It leaves me so off-balance that I’m forced to put my hand out and steady myself on one of my bookshelves.
You didn’t answer my question.
I googled it, okay.
What?
I can’t fucking believe it.
Are you seriously asking me to believe you were able to find the prostate on the internet when you couldn’t use google to find a custom drape company?
Look, I don’t know what to tell you. I guess I was highly motivated or something.
I grin at my screen like a fool, and when that’s not enough, I clasp my phone in both hands and press it to my heart. I expect Ben to laugh at me. If I were him, I would. This shit is pathetic.
He doesn’t. Not at all. Not even a little bit. Instead, he places a hand on the pane of glass in front of him, lightly dusting his fingertips across it. At first I think he’s waving, but he isn’t. He’s touching the glass where I am, marking the spot where I’m standing.
He’s touching the version of me he sees in his window.
I sway and hold on to the bookshelf a little tighter. I can’t look away, and I also can’t send another message because I don’t know how to type or think anymore.
After a few minutes, he sends another message.
