Page 62 of Coronation
“It’s quite a physically taxing job,” Ben remarks, his hand settling on the small of my back as he guides me toward a patch of unoccupied grass. “I never thought of it like that until I visited the set. The whole business is much less glamorous than I was expecting.”
I swallow, trying to follow what he’s saying, when all I can seem to focus on is the warmth of his hand as it rests on the base of my spine. It feels like his touch is bleeding into my veins, making all those very prudent, determined thoughts I had about boundaries a little too fuzzy to properly recall.
“Yes,” I agree at last, when we stop at the base of a large tree. “Though I thankfully don’t spend every day having my butt kicked by Davina.”
His hand vanishes from my back as he bends to set down a basket. I watch, biting my bottom lip, as he unfolds the woven blanket and spreads it out over the grass. It’s such a mundane task, but for Ben, who holds himself with a stiff formality at the best of times, I feel as though I’m watching a golden retriever dust a bookshelf.
We’re a dozen yards from anyone else. The nearest are a family, who are playing a board game with their small children as they wait for the play to begin, and a couple who look far too invested in each other to pay us any mind. Shaking myself from my daze, I sit down on the corner of the blanket, setting the bag with our drinks beside me as Ben does the same.
“Would you like something to eat?” he asks, all business as he reaches for the basket and flips open the lid, examining the contents. “It’s allvegan.”
I whip around to look at him, totally taken aback. “All of it?”
He glances over at me, frowning. “Yes. Is that a problem?”
“Of course not,” I blurt out, heart hammering as I scramble for something, anything, to anchor myself to, because all the excellent reasons I have for keeping Ben at arm’s length are starting to feel a little too flimsy for comfort. “Food. Yes. That sounds great.”
I just… I can’t believe he remembered. Not only remembered, but also went to the trouble to arrange an entire basket of food that I can eat, undoubtedly sacrificing some of his own favorites in the process. It shouldn’t be a big deal, but I’m used to compromising for other people, not the other way around.
Oh, god. It really is great, too.
I watch, silently spiraling, as Ben unpacks the basket, setting the selection on the blanket before us. He brought everything from fresh summer salads to sliced fruit to homemade brownies in a little container. Then, as if all this wasn’t enough, he portions a bit of everything out on a tin plate and hands it to me, accepting my quiet word of thanks without comment.
As he’s preparing his own portion, music begins to play on stage, and a hush falls over the assembled audience members. The curtains twitch.
“This all looks amazing,” I tell him softly, turning the fork between my fingers as Ben sets down the last bowl of chickpea salad and snaps the top back on carefully. As he reaches to put it down, his arm brushes mine, and just like earlier when he touched my back, the heat seems to linger so much longer than it should.
We eat in silence, the sounds of cutlery on plates joining the production underway on stage, and the quiet rustlings of the audience around us. When we’re finally done, and Ben has tucked the dirty plates into a plastic bag in the picnic basket,dusk has fallen. I shiver, missing the warmth of the sun, and wishing I’d thought to bring a sweater.
The man beside me doesn’t let me stay cold for long. In seconds, he’s shrugging out of his dark jacket and tucking it around my shoulders, engulfing me in his familiar, earthy, masculine scent. “You don’t have to,” I protest weakly, even as I pull the garment closer around myself.
Ben shoots me a brief, withering look. “You’re shaking like a leaf, Zelda. I’m fine, I promise.”
Hemight be fine, butI’mnot.
Beneath the coat, he is wearing a simple, dark T-shirt, one that is tight to his biceps and reveals nearly the entire strong, corded length of his arms. The same ones that strained as he braced them on the mattress on either side of me, holding his weight off mine as he fucked me hard and fast.
God, the sex really wasso good. Epic, incredible, life-changing-level good. So good that Ireallyshouldn’t be thinking about it in public.
Swallowing, I cross my legs, keeping my eyes glued to the stage. Distraction comes quickly, however. In the corner of my eye, I notice the couple closest to us looking our way, giving each other wide-eyed, meaningful looks. The woman pulls out a phone, obviously attempting to be discreet.
“Somebody’s seen us,” I tell Ben under my breath. His jaw tightens, and he inclines his head ever so slightly in response, tearing his eyes from the stage to look at me directly.
It’s kind of incredible how quickly that couple falls off my radar. In fact, everything around us evaporates as he lifts a hand to my face, slowly, so as to allow me the chance to turn away. I don’t, though. It’s just for show; he’s doing it for the benefit of the phone camera that’s surely on us by now, but real or fake doesn’t seem to matter. The moment he touches me, I feel it everywhere.
Cradling my face, Ben leans closer, and I think he’s goingto kiss me. I’m sure of it, actually. There is no tension in his expression, only naked desire, the same I saw there the night we met. It’s as though the Earth’s gravity is stronger between us, and I find myself leaning in too, pulled into him by the same invisible force.
He doesn’t kiss me, though. At the very last minute, he leans to the side, his stubble rasping against my cheek as he lowers his lips to murmur in my ear, “I’m sorry.”
The disappointment is so strong it seems to hollow me out. It may be the shame, too. At the moment, it’s difficult to tell the difference. “For what?” I ask, my voice almost lost in the cool evening breeze that sweeps in over the open field. If I get any closer to Ben, I’ll be in his lap, and I’m possessed by the impulse to reach out and touch him. Instead, my fingers curl into the dirt beneath the blanket.
Ben’s answer is rough. “I should ask before I put my hands on you like this.”
I want to tell him he can touch me whenever he wants. More than that, I want to pack up our things and go back to the hotel, where we’d have nothing but uninterrupted hours ahead of us. There wouldn’t be anyone to see him touch me there.
Just the thought of it… I’m aching.Literally aching.
The hand still cradling my face slips lower to curl around the back of my neck, and I lose the battle with my self-restraint, my hand moving—almost before I’ve realized it’s happening—to rest on his chest.
