44. Forty-Four
Forty-Four
LENA
H e holds nothing back. Nothing.
Right there at the Jeep, in the rain, soaked and starving, he lavishes me with overdue kisses and touches, melding into me like we’re one.
We are one. But Ben needed to fight through his shitstorm to believe that again. He needed to see that this is where he belongs, not just here with Ruthie and me but, here, at Saddletree, with this community and our extended family. Miraculously, the funeral gave him that.
And it gave me another beautiful insight into him.
He astounded me today—showing up for us and standing up for Dot and Mrs. Moore.
If you would’ve asked me this morning for a list of things Ben Wright would never, ever do, delivering an impromptu speech for a crowd would’ve ranked high.
Showing up at the funeral at all was risky—for all he knew, I could’ve told everyone about his final push and turned them all against him.
But he came anyway. It proves what I’ve always known— this man would do anything for us.
Even leaving was his misguided way of saving me. Aw, Ben.
I’m breathless with relief and desperation. I’ve fallen in love with him all over again, only stronger, if that’s even possible.
I’ve been with Ben hundreds, maybe thousands of times.
Gosh, I wish I could go back and keep a sex journal like people do for food they’ve eaten or books they’ve read.
I’d call it Sexy Encounters of the Ben Kind, and there’d be many volumes with notes and crude drawings with lots of exclamation points and smiley faces.
Today’s entry would take many detailed pages, and I’d never get it right.
But that’s okay. It’s a cornerstone memory burned into us like fireworks, our wedding, Ruthie’s birth, and now, our toe-curling reconciliation.
The first time we made out in this barn, I couldn’t break from my anxiety long enough to enjoy him how I wanted and ended up crying in his arms.
This morning, I felt even sadder without him.
Now, it’s all joy, overflowing and spilling onto him.
The rain picks up, and somehow, he drags us inside.
His deep kisses and roaming hands press me to the nearest wall.
Thunder crashes through the driving rain outside, giving a fitting soundtrack to the storm of his affection.
He is all over me. His mouth is all over me.
I cry out like it’s new—it is, in a strange way. It’s been too long without him.
A breathless search for a way to rid me of my dress ends with him gently gathering the hem and slowly easing it over my head. In nothing but black heels and lace, he moans at the sight of me—his green eyes wide and glowing with want.
Pressing his body fully against me, his hand grips my face almost roughly. “You are beautiful.”
He takes one hand in both of his, letting his fingers skim my soft skin all the way to my shoulder, followed by his lips. “And amazing at everything you do—I mean it.”
I laugh at this, though tears speck my eyes again to hear him say it.
He peels out of his suit jacket, dropping it atop my dress.
He kisses me hard and deep before trailing his tongue down my neck and nibbling my protruding collarbone.
Looking up from the curves of my breasts, he says, “You are my wife,” recalling my tearful words at the hospital.
I melt at those words like he’s setting them in stone.
He’s down on his knees again—so much for the suit—watching my expression as he gently eases one leg onto his shoulder and then the other. I go from relief to curiosity to holy shit .
My body flushes hot in a second as he fingers my panties aside and kisses me.
Hoisted against him, back against the wall, exposed to the coolness, he takes me ravenously.
Supporting and seducing me. Wrecking and rebuilding me.
With his hands tight to my thighs, I come so deeply that I cry out, and my entire body shakes.
All that tension without him. My nightmares, fears, anger, and love release into the musky barn in this glorious, intense moment.
He slows, breathing against me as my thunderous cries reduce to a soft, satisfied whimper.
Then, he starts again.
When he’s done with me there, my muscles feel like noodles.
He eases my legs from his shoulders, setting my heeled feet on the dirty brick floor one at a time. His strong hands knead my legs, calves, and thighs, sparking life back into them as he stands.
“You’ve totally undone me,” I say, breathless. “And you haven’t even loosened your tie.”
He yanks the tie off and tosses it aside.
“I’ve missed you like crazy.” A devilish smirk appears on his handsome face. “I want every inch of you, as many times as you let me.”
“Take me here. Now.” A giddy laugh rolls off my tongue. “Then, take me upstairs, and let me get you out of that suit.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Smirking, he hoists me against the wall when my legs wrap around him.
In the next moment, he’s inside me—my legs pulling him into me for that first, aching thrust like water for the thirsty.
His deep moan joins my higher one. My bare back scratches against the barn’s shiplap, but I like the roughness.
His hands claw me as they explore—my face, neck, chest, pressing me into the wall, pressing himself into me.
“I’ll never get enough of you,” he says, reading my mind.
With the next thrust, he says, “You are my wife…”
And another.
“For better or worse…”
Another. Holy fuck.
“Till the day I die…” His words sound breathy but stern, and his sultry green eyes fix on mine, piercing through me. Watching me, he moves in and out slowly, dipping himself in before a full dive.
And it’s making me quiver for how good it feels and how desperately I want more.
“I promise… your bed will never be cold or your nightmares uncomforted again…”
“Holy shit, Ben, please.”
Deeper now.
“I promise… my heart, thoughts, and all the words I don’t say…”
Deeper again. I cry out.
“The entirety of me…”
A bit deeper.
“From this day on…”
Oh, shit.
“If you’ll still—”
“Yes! God, yes!” I sputter as I convulse with him inside me, pulling him deeper.
“Forever then,” he says, determined.
“For-fucking-ever,” I cry as he releases in me. Eyes wide and watchful. Body pressed. Hands holding me to him. And I melt in our oneness. I collapse against his shoulders like a marathon runner through the end-tape.
“I promise I won’t disappoint you again,” he whispers, nuzzling his forehead to mine. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“Good,” I say, smiling. “You can start by joining me in the shower, and then our bed.”
He releases me gently. “Yes, ma’am.” He scoops up his discarded jacket, tie, and my dress, flings them over his shoulder, and then does the same to me, making me laugh hysterically as he gently slaps my ass.
He carries me to the loft that way amid my relentless giggling.
I love his playful side, and it’s been too long since I’ve seen it.
At the top of the stairs, he sets me down, and meeting his eyes again, my laughter melts into his seriousness. He tugs me close, my nearly bare skin pressing against the soft, dampness of his shirt, and his fingers thread through my hair.
“I’ll miss your laugh when my hearing goes,” he says with a small smile, not in a woe-is-me way, but with gratitude and reverence, like he’s glad to have heard it at all.
“You’ll always have it. You’ll see it,” I say, tracing the soft lines around his eyes before placing my hand against the rock-hardness of his chest, “and feel it.”
A coy side smile eases up his cheek as he takes me in. “I’m a lucky man.”
Hearing those words brings a wide smile. The despair I’ve seen in him over losing his hearing is replaced with something more Ben-like. Acceptance. Gratefulness. And especially joy.
“We’re both lucky,” I say.
He hoists me on his shoulder again, forcing choking laughs, and carries me to our bedroom.
He releases me near the bathroom doorway and kisses me until I’m pinned against the doorjamb.
It reminds me of the first time we were together like this, how we barely made it to the room at all, and how we stopped at the bed to see each other naked for the first time. “You’re breathtaking,” he said then.
He says the same words now once he strips me down. I peel him from his suit as fast as my fingers will work— not fast enough —and he laughs at my urgency.
We shower together, and our sweet reunion becomes a sex marathon, ending with us damp and breathless on the bed a while later. Beside me, he drapes his arm across my belly as we catch our breath.
Tears slip from my eyes as I bask in the loveliness of us together again. He perches on his side, locking eyes, his deep greens penetrating me. He doesn’t ask why I’m crying. I think he knows—sadness for Mrs. Moore and relief for us. Instead, he smiles and wipes my wet cheeks with his thumb.
“What can I do?”
“You’ve done it. You’re home,” I smile. “This is all I need… and my phone. I should check in with Dot.”
He leaves me for the living room, retrieving my phone from his jacket pocket. When he hands it over, he grins. “Before today, I had a feeling she wanted to murder me.”
“Oh, she did. Dot and Cherry have a plan. I’ll tell them I can’t make it over—”
“Wait. Let’s go over together.” He sits up slightly. “We’ll check that all is well, and I’ll find out more about this murder plot.”
“Careful. Learning about the murder plot risks plausible deniability.”
He waves this off. “It’s okay. Soon, I won’t be a cop anymore.”
He pats my ass and leaves me for the bathroom. I stare at the ceiling, saddened by the thought.
Ben detours to Publix on the way to Mrs. Moore’s country cottage—now Dot’s. When I ask what for, he only says, “A peace offering.” I let him keep the mystery.
At the house, he meets me on the passenger side with his wide umbrella, and, shoulder-to-shoulder, we rush through the puddles and steady rain to the front porch.
We find everyone in Mrs. Moore’s quaint living room.
It’s like walking in on an adult slumber party, with one cute exception, of course.
Jaye sits, laptop open, at the table by the window.
Cherry is curled under a throw on the couch with her phone.
Dot and Ruthie are on the floor, with photo albums, books, and old boxes between them.
Nirvana plays softly in the background to the gameshow applause on the TV.
I understand why she’d want a full, noisy house tonight. It reminds me of how empty the house felt after Mom died. Lights and noise helped.
The group looks up in unison when we enter the living room.
“Mom, Dad, Aunt Barb left me all her science stuff.” Ruthie holds up a magnifying glass almost as big as her face and peers through it. “I’m going to be a scientist when I grow up.”
I chuckle, mentally adding it to the long list in Ruthie’s Future Game.
“Why wait until you grow up?” Ben says. “Be a scientist now.”
Ruthie nods, a determined smirk rising on her cheek. She jumps from her seat and sweeps across the room with the magnifying glass at the ready, like a detective searching for clues.
When attention returns to us, Ben addresses my friends almost like he’s standing at the podium again. “I apologize for causing distress. It won’t happen again.” He holds up the Publix bag. “Hungry? I’m making Reubens.”
I laugh-blush, gaping up at him. He made Reubens on our first night together at his place—his only specialty, he said. His eyes catch mine, and I love the subtle smile on his lips.
Another truth about marriage is how it changes.
Long gone are the days of spontaneous fireworks (and barn escapades, I would’ve thought).
Now, romance is soft, subtle, and sweet in the little things.
Even so, when it happens, it’s just as big as fireworks for the love and warm feelings it reenergizes.
Somehow, the sweet, small things matter more these days.
Showing up.
Holding the umbrella.
Holding hands.
Making Reubens like our first date.
Ben Wright promised to always romance me. Tears spring to my eyes that he’s returned to keeping it. He’s back. He’s really and truly back.
“Aw, he’s making you sparkle again,” Jaye coos, her hand going to her heart.
Dot eyes me critically before saying, “Fine… extra sauerkraut on mine.”
“Oh, can I help?” Ruthie asks.
“Yes.” He heads to the kitchen with his daughter bouncing beside him.