“I just…I don’t get it.” I stare at the crescent moon rising over the roof of the building. “The officer who called me, he said she’d…the accident happened in the middle of the night. And, I mean, I don’t know what she was doing then, you know? Like, she had a very orderly life. She had clients throughout the day, but her last one was always at seven in the evening. She’d have dinner, she’d either pick it up or she’d make something easy. And then she’d watch some TV, and she’d go to bed. I don’t think she was ever out past midnight in all the years I lived at home. At least, not once she quit working the ER, I mean. So what the hell was she doing out at three in the morning?”
Ben is strangely silent. He doesn’t answer, doesn’t look at me. He just digs the end of his cane in the grass and spins it back and forth. Tension bleeds off him, and I’m not sure where it’s coming from. I want to ask, but I don’t.
This time, the silence is thick and tense. After a moment, Ben drains his beer and stands up. “Want another?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
His abrupt silence and tension is odd and thick and unexpected.
So we go into his apartment through the sliding glass door off his back porch. He hands me a beer, and moves toward the back door, but I decide to sit on the couch and flip on the TV. He watches me click through channels until I find AMC and a rerun of last season’s The Walking Dead, airing in preparation for the new season starting in a couple months. He watches me for a few moments, and then sits beside me, leaving a space between us.
It’s clear, after half an hour or so, that something is eating at him. I know it was something I said, but I don’t know how to address it, how to ask, what to say. I slide a glance at him, eyeing him sideways, as if I can decipher what’s bothering him just by looking at him. His brows are drawn, and I get the sense he’s not really watching the show. He’s staring at the TV, but he’s obviously a million miles away.
It’s awkward, now. I’m here, he’s here, but there’s nothing between us. It’s like he just shut down, like walls went up and any connection we might have made throughout the day has been erased. And I don’t even know why. Worse yet, I can’t figure out why that bothers me so much. Why I so badly want him to open up again, why I want so much for him to inch closer. I shouldn’t want his heat near me, shouldn’t want his proximity. But I do.
And why shouldn’t I, though? Am I not allowed to feel anything but the grief? He’s here and, in this moment, I can’t remember a single reason why I shouldn’t let myself explore whatever there might be between Ben and me. It won’t lessen my pain over losing Mom. It won’t soothe the hurt. But it might make me less lonely. It might ease the ache a little. And, right now, anything is better than the pulsing pressure of pain inside, grief buried deep and pushed down and not dealt with. It’s down there, and it wants out, but I can’t let it out. If I do it’ll never stop. At some point I’ll have to let myself truly feel it, but not now. It’s too fresh, right now. And, in some way, I still don’t even really believe Mom’s gone. It’s almost as if I’ll get a text from her tomorrow morning, asking how classes are going. Like I could swing by her apartment and pretend I just came down to Texas to visit her. The reality of her death hasn’t sunk in yet. Not totally.
And, in the meantime, I’ve got a hot, mysterious guy sitting beside me, one with honor enough to not only take care of my drunk ass, but tactfully and respectfully handle me throwing myself at him all but naked.
I don’t know any other guy that would have done that. Maybe I just know assholes, but I can’t think of one guy that would have been able to resist me literally throwing my naked ass at him.
Especially when I’ve seen and felt Ben’s eyes on me, seen the flash of desire.
I glance at him again, and this time his eyes catch mine. His expression darkens, and I see that glimmer of attraction, see his eyes go to my lips, and then back to my eyes.
Fuck it.
I twist on the couch and lean in before I can second-guess myself. His lips are soft and strong and eager. I curl my hand around the back of his neck and slide my other palm against his ribs and lean closer, press tighter against him, and I taste the beer on his breath and feel his tongue slide against my teeth. His hands cross the space between us, one running slowly up from my knee to my thigh, the other going to my cheek, a roughened palm scraping across my cheekbone, fingers threading in the fine hair just above my ear. His hand is big, his pinky finger beneath my earlobe, his thumb tracing across my eyebrow.
His mouth moves against mine slowly and surely, and with each slide of lips against lips, our bodies glide closer and closer. I pull him against my mouth, deepen the kiss, breathe his breath and caress the hair at the back of his neck and slide my palm over the hard ridges of his ribs and the furrows of his abdominal muscles.
I gather the soft material of his T-shirt in my hand, bunch it and lift it and then I’m skittering my fingers over his flesh, rubbing my palm against his skin, roaming around to his back and up his spine, back down to his stomach and up the broad expanse of his chest. He mirrors my action, slipping his hand under my shirt and exploring up my back to just beneath my bra strap, and his hand is strong and gentle.
It’s a kiss I don’t want to break away from. Usually, a kiss is nothing more than a gateway to sex, a way to ease into nudity and penetration. But this is different. He’s in no rush, kissing me slowly, thoroughly. His mouth explores mine, learns my kiss and my response. His tongue teases mine, flicking out against my teeth and tongue and then retreating until I’m hungry for his tongue inside my mouth, eager for it, demanding it, tasting the inside of his mouth and exploring his hard body and thick muscles and taut flesh.
His hands skim over my belly and roam the centimeters beneath my bra, sliding closer but not daring to touch. I don’t want this to stop. I need this. I’m sober and doing this with my eyes wide open. I know this won’t solve anything, and I’m not trying to use him as a salve or a rebound. I’m doing this because I want his body, because in the few short hours I’ve known him, I’ve grown to enjoy his presence and his personality. I don’t know where this will go, after tonight, and I don’t care. I just want now. I want his hands and his mouth and all of him, for as long as I can have him.
I push his shirt up and rip it off, toss it aside, and let my hands explore his body. God, he’s ripped. He’s not heavily muscled in a beefcake sort of way, he’s more cut and toned and defined. He’s big, though. Over six feet tall, easily, and probably weighs a good two hundred pounds of solid muscle.