Chapter 10 #2
His hands are shaking so badly that the metal tab slips from his grasp on the first try.
He makes a small, frustrated noise in his throat, then tries again, his knuckles brushing the bare skin of my lower back.
The touch is electric, but his movements are jerky, terrified.
When he finally gets the zipper down, I let the skirt drop to my ankles and step out of it, leaving me standing in my panties, ripped fishnets, and my band t-shirt.
I turn back to face him.
Like when I’d changed in front of him, his eyes are fixed on the wall behind me, refusing to look at my body, his face flushed red. I just watch him for a second, seeing if he’ll buckle and peep, but his eyes stay where they are, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
“Now the shirt,” I say.
His gaze snaps to mine, his eyes wide. “Cass—”
“I’m not asking you to do anything weird,” I say, my voice calm. “I’m asking you to help me take off my shirt like a boyfriend would.”
“I—”
“The choice is yours, Ben,” I say, reaching out to take his hands, uncurling his fists and placing them on the hem of my shirt. “But if you don’t want to do this—if you can’t learn to be comfortable around me, especially in public—then it’s best we stop now…”
His fingers are large and warm, trembling against the worn cotton fabric as his mind chews over the problem. Then he makes his choice, and with agonizing slowness, he grips the fabric and lifts, his gaze fixed on the wall behind me as if his life depends on not looking at me.
The shirt slides up over my stomach, my ribs, my chest. I raise my arms, and he lifts it over my head, his movements clumsy and mechanical. And as the t-shirt falls to the floor, I’m standing exposed before him just in a black bra, black boy leg panties, and ripped fishnets.
His entire body is rigid with terror. He’s flushed red from his neck to his hairline, and he’s refusing to look at me, his gaze locked on some point over my left shoulder. For the first time in my entire life, I want a boy’s attention, and I’m not getting it.
Usually, they want the facade but run from what’s underneath.
But Ben won’t even look at the facade.
“Ben,” I whisper. “Look at me.”
His eyes flick to mine for a split second, then dart away.
“Look at me,” I say again, firmer this time.
Slowly, painfully, his gaze drags back to my face.
“You’re supposed to want to look at me,” I say. “So look.”
His eyes drop, his gaze tracing my features—my eyes, my mouth—and then his eyes drift lower. He takes in the curve of my shoulders, the black fabric of my bra, the cleavage and shape of the small breasts it barely covers. Then lower still… my flat stomach, my panties, my legs…
“Tell me what you like,” I say softly.
His eyes snap back to mine. “What?”
“Tell me what you like.” I tilt my head. “I’m your girlfriend, right?”
“I can’t do that Cass, I—”
“Yes, you can,” I say.
He swallows hard. “Your… your eyes,” he says. “They’re—they’re really blue.”
“That’s a start…” I say, knowing most guys wouldn’t start there if they had a half-naked girl in front of them.
“Your hair,” he continues, his voice gaining a fraction of confidence. “The way you cut it. It’s… it’s cool. It makes you look—” He stops himself.
“Look what?” I prompt.
“Dangerous,” he finishes, his voice barely a whisper. “And hot.”
The word lands between us, heavy and honest.
For a second, I don’t know what to say. But then I step closer, closing the distance between us, and take his hands again. I place them on my hips, over the thin cotton of my panties. His palms are hot against my skin, his fingers trembling.
“Now,” I say, my voice a little unsteady, “just hold on.”
Before he can process what’s happening, I lead him over to the bed and force him to sit. Then I swing my leg over his and settle onto his lap, straddling him, finding his erection even through the thick denim of his jeans.
Oh.
My breath catches. The reality of the situation hits me all at once. The warmth of his body beneath mine, the solid weight of his hands on my hips, the way his wide, terrified eyes are locked on mine, and the hard, unmistakable ridge of his cock pressing against me.
Fuck.
“See? This is what we need to practice, right?” I say. “You okay?”
He nods, but his hands are trembling on my hips.
So I guide them, sliding them up to my waist. “Now,” I say, my voice a low command. “Just… touch me… like you’re supposed to want to.”
His fingers are tentative at first, his touch so light it’s almost not there. Then something shifts and I watch it happen in real time, the moment his brain stops screaming at him to run and his body takes over all gross motor function.
His hands relax. His fingers spread, his palms warm against my skin. He traces the line of my ribs, slow and deliberate. One hand slides down, and I feel the heat of it even through the thin cotton of my panties as his palm cups my ass and pulls me tighter against him.
Oh, fuck.
The hard ridge of him presses insistently against me, and a shock of pure want shoots through my core, radiating out in sharp, pulsing waves. My breath catches, and this time I can’t hide it. And when he hears it, his eyes go wide, and I see the exact moment he realizes what he’s doing to me.
And instead of retreating, he does it again.
His hips shift, a small, involuntary press upward, and the pressure against my clit—even through layers of fabric—is sharp and devastating. Instantly, a liquid warmth that spreads through my veins, making my skin feel too tight and my pulse hammer in my throat.
I suck in a breath. “Keep going,” I say.
His other hand slides up my side, his thumb brushing the underside of my breast, and I realize we’ve moved beyond a practice session. I’m flushed, my nipples tight and aching against the fabric of my bra, and I can feel the traitorous dampness soaking through the cotton of my panties.
And Ben—sweet, terrified, gentle Ben—is looking at me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. His hands are on me with a sureness I didn’t know he possessed, and the hard, undeniable evidence of his arousal is pressed against me in a way that makes my entire body sing.
He’s clearly smitten. I can feel it like a gravitational pull, and it’s doing something to me I didn’t anticipate. It’s making me feel powerful. Desired. Seen. And then, cutting through the haze of heat and sensation, a new thought arrives.
This feels… safe.
The realization is jarring.
With other guys, this kind of moment was always a negotiation, a prelude to a demand I might not want to meet. But with Ben, I know—with an absolute, bone-deep certainty—that if I said “stop” right now, he would. Immediate compliance, with no argument, and no sulking.
The danger here isn’t to me.
It’s to him and his heart.
I open my mouth to say something—to gently put on the brakes and return this to the safe training session for a fake couple I’d intended it to be—but before I can, he shifts, and he lets out a sharp, strangled breath as his entire body gives a seismic shudder.
Then I feel it.
A sudden, damp warmth through the thin cotton of my panties.
Oh, God.
He just came in his pants.
As the realization hits me, it’s like an atom bomb dropped on his entire world. He goes utterly, completely still beneath me as the blood drains from his face, his eyes wide with a shame so profound it’s almost a physical presence in the room.
For a second, neither of us moves. Then he scrambles backward, practically throwing me off his lap in his haste to put distance between us. He’s on his feet, creating a physical distance between us, his back turned to me.
“I—” he starts, his voice breaking. “I need… I need you to go.”
The words are choked, whispered, pleading—spoken by a gentle, broken boy who just shattered into a million pieces right in front of me. And the realization that it’s my fault hits me hard, because I pushed him too fast and too far. I wanted to train him, to help him, but I’ve destroyed him.
“Hey,” I say softly, standing. “Ben—”
“Don’t,” he says, whispering, and refusing to look at me. “Please. Just… go.”
I don’t argue. I don’t push. I don’t try to fix it with words.
I give him what he needs.
I grab my shirt and skirt from the floor, pull them on quickly, and walk to the door. Only there do I pause for a second, my hand on the knob, looking back at his trembling form.
“Ben,” I say quietly. “It’s okay.”
He doesn’t respond.