His words feel like they penetrate the walls of my chest and all the air is let out of my lungs. I close my eyes when his breath grazes my jaw. He’s taking advantage of the privacy and my weakness and I want to punch him for it, but first I just need to know if he tastes the same. If his tongue still moves the same way. If he still touches me like it’s a privilege.
I’m being supported by a wall behind me and Ben in front of me, but still, when his hand drops to my thigh and his fingers begin slowly raking up my skirt, I feel like I’m about to crash straight to the floor. There’s so much that needs to be discussed between us, but for whatever reason, my body wants my mouth to stay shut so his hand will continue moving. I’ve missed his touch so much, and even though I’ve made the effort to go out and try to get over Ben, I’m not sure I could ever find this kind of physical connection with another person. No one makes me feel as desirable as Ben does. I’ve missed it. The way he looks at me, the way he touches me, the way he makes it feel as if my scars are an improvement rather than a flaw. It’s hard to say no to this feeling, no matter how hurt I’ve been over what transpired last year.
“Ben,” I whisper, not so much in protest as I intended for his name to sound. He buries his face against my neck and breathes me in, and I forget everything I was about to protest. My head drops back against the wall, and then his hand slides around to the back of my thigh. His fingers graze the edge of my panties and when I feel them slip just beneath the hem, my whole body shudders. I’m forced to bury my face against his shoulder and grip the back of his shirt just to keep myself upright. All he did was touch my ass and I feel like I can’t even stand upright anymore. I should be embarrassed.
He pulls back, just a little bit, so that he can glance over his shoulder. I don’t know who or what he’s looking for, but when he sees no one is behind us, he reaches to the right of me—to a door. He pulls on the handle and it relents. Ben doesn’t waste a second. He grabs me by the waist and pushes me toward the door, into the dark room, and then the door closes behind us, muffling the sound of the music.
Now I can hear how hard I’m breathing. Panting, really. But so is he. I can hear him right in front of me, but I can’t see him. I hear him feeling around the room. It’s pitch black, and the absence of the wall behind me and him in front of me makes me feel empty.
But then his hands are back on my waist. “Storage room,” he says, pushing me until my back is to the door. “Perfect.” And then I feel his breath against my lips, followed closely by his mouth as it brushes against mine. As soon as I feel it—the surge of electricity that shoots from his mouth to every nerve in my body—I push against his chest.
“Stop,” I tell him, my voice louder than it’s been all night thanks to the distance from the music. His hand is right back where it was before . . . grazing the edge of my panties . . . forcing my eyes shut like it would even make a difference in here.
“I’m trying,” he whispers, threading the hand that isn’t up my skirt through the strands of my hair. He grips the nape of my neck. “Ask me again.”
I open my mouth to say it again, but I’m met with heat and tongue and lips that know just how to make it all work together. Instead of the word stop coming at him, all he gets is a moan and a hand in his hair, pulling, pushing, indecisive.
He pushes against me, his leg between both of mine. He’s kissing me so hard, my mind is still wrapped around all the ways his tongue can move before I even notice his hand has moved around to the front of my thigh. And I know I should stop him. I should push him away and make him explain himself, but his hand feels too good for that right now. My legs tense and I grip the sleeve of his shirt with one hand while I pull on his hair with the other hand, tearing him away from my mouth so I can breathe. I take in one deep breath before he’s back on my mouth, even hungrier than before.
And his hand. Oh, God, his fingers are slowly tracing up the front of my panties. I moan again. Twice. He puts just enough space between our mouths so that he can listen to me gasp as he slides his hand down the front of my panties.
My knees grow weak. I’m not sure I knew my body was capable of feeling these kinds of things. I think I just fell in love with my body a little bit more.
“Jesus, Fallon,” Ben says, stroking me, breathing heavily against my mouth. “You’re so wet.”
As delicious as it feels to hear that, I can’t help but laugh out loud. When I do, I quickly slap my hand over my mouth, but it’s already too late. He heard my laughter in the midst of the most mind-blowing act of seduction I’ve ever been a part of.
He drops his forehead to the side of my head and I hear him laughing quietly. His mouth rests against my ear and I swear I can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “God, I’ve missed you so damn much.”
That one sentence affects me more than anything he’s said all night, and I don’t know if it’s because it felt like the old Fallon and Ben for a second, or if it’s because he removes his hand and wraps his arms around me, pulling me into one of his soul-crushing embraces. His forehead rests against mine, and I almost wish he would have kept going with the physical stuff, because that’s way easier than the emotional stuff.
As good as it feels to be back in his arms again, I’m scared I’m screwing up. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if I should let him back into my life so easily, because the getting together part should be just as hard as the letting go part and this feels way too easy for him. I need time, I think. I don’t know. I don’t feel capable of making this kind of decision right now.
“Fallon,” he says, his voice low.
“Yeah?” I breathe out.
“Come home with me. I want to talk to you, but I don’t want to do it here.”
We’re back to this again. It makes me wonder if he’s being so persistent because there’s only a few hours left of November 9th and he wants to make the most of it, or if he wants me on all the other days, too.
I feel behind me for the door handle. When I find it, I push against Ben’s chest and pull the door open. When I slip outside, his hand is on my right elbow and someone else grasps my left elbow. I gasp, just as my eyes meet Amber’s.
“I was looking for you,” she says. “What are you doing in . . .” Her question comes to a halt when she sees Ben walk out behind me. And then, “Sorry to interrupt this reunion, but Teddy is worried about you.”