Chapter 22
twenty-two
BEN
We’re on my bed, and I’m kissing Cass, and my brain keeps short-circuiting on the simple, impossible fact that she’s here.
In my arms, her weight solid against me, her breath warm on my lips. And, suddenly, the frantic loop of my own inadequacy goes quiet. It’s just her and me, both of us doing the brave thing—her opening up, me staying—that our bodies are trying to resist.
I won’t run this time.
The vow settles in my bones as I kiss her again, slower, letting myself feel her lips soft and yielding, her hands sliding up my chest, her fingers curling into my shirt. The warmth of her pressed against me is tactile proof that this is real, that I didn’t destroy everything beyond repair.
And, suddenly, I’m not terrified.
I’m in control.
It’s just like the steady-handed focus I bring to using a soldering iron, or the patient confidence of knowing what comes next in a defensive play on the ice and trusting myself to get there. It’s brand new, but suddenly, it feels right.
“Let me,” I murmur against her mouth, my hands sliding to the hem of her shirt, fingers brushing warm skin. “Let me do this right.”
She nods, and I break our kiss to pull it over her head. The movement is deliberate, reverent, like I’m handling something delicate that might fracture if I rush. When the shirt is gone, I trace the line of her collarbone, down to the swell of her breasts still hidden by plain black fabric.
I reach behind her, fingers fumbling slightly with the clasp—my hands are good with tiny components and delicate wiring, but bra hooks are apparently their own engineering challenge—and when it finally releases with a soft click, I let it fall between us.
For a moment, I just look, inhaling sharply.
Because this is like seeing the Mona Lisa as she was being painted.
The pale curve of her breasts. The way her breath has quickened so her chest rises and falls in a rhythm I could almost match to the fading jazz. The faint pink flush spreading up from her chest to her throat. It’s all a masterpiece.
“Ben,” she whispers, just my name, like a question I’m finally ready to answer.
I lower my head and kiss her collarbone, then the hollow of her throat where her pulse hammers beneath my lips, fast and fluttering like a trapped bird. It’s a sign that she’s nervous, as well, and the realization helps to steady me.
My mouth maps a deliberate path down to the soft skin between her breasts, to the flat plane of her stomach where muscle flexes beneath my lips as she gasps, to the sharp jut of her hip bone where the constellation tattoo I’d only glimpsed before now demands attention.
It’s a scatter of small black stars, ink-dark against pale skin. I trace it with my tongue, feeling her breath catch. “Cassiopeia,” I whisper.
She tenses. “How the hell did you know that?”
“Nerd, remember?” I murmur against her skin, glad I was right about the constellation and her full name. “I went through an astronomy phase…”
She laughs. “Of course you did…”
And in that simple act of levity, that moment of it not being a big deal, I feel accepted. And it makes me want to make her feel accepted—the girl who cried in my arms, the girl who’s constantly been let down by guys, the girl who showed up when I didn’t deserve it, the girl who’s trusting me now.
I hook my fingers into the waistband of her jeans and pause, looking up from where I’m kneeling between her legs. “Still OK?” I ask.
“Yes.” Her voice is breathless but certain, eyes locked on mine.
I pull the denim down slowly, taking her panties with them, and when she’s finally bare before me—completely, gloriously naked on my bed—I take a moment to just absorb the trust she’s placing in me and the fact that this is happening and my body isn’t betraying me and she’s here.
I settle between her thighs and lower my mouth to her center. The first taste of her makes her gasp, and the sound travels through me like feedback through an ungrounded amp. I want to chase that frequency and learn what makes it spike.
I take my time with her, my tongue exploring, paying attention to what makes her gasp versus what makes her moan. I lick a slow path along her folds, then focus on her clit—firm and slick—and when I circle it with the flat of my tongue, her hips jerk.
I experiment with pressure, with rhythm, learning the way her breathing changes when I suck gently, the way her thighs tense around my head when I flick just there, and the desperate, choked moan when I hit the exact right combination.
I’m doing this. I’m making her feel this.
I’m so focused on her pleasure that I barely register my own aching arousal pressing into the mattress, hard and insistent and completely irrelevant. Because, right now, as she moans and groans, her breathing becoming ragged, I know she’s close.
And, right now, that’s all that matters.
“Wait,” she gasps. “I need… I need to taste you too.”
Apparently it’s not all that matters.
Before I can process, she’s shifting, maneuvering our bodies with clumsy, frantic urgency. It’s a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter—my knee hits the wall with a dull thud, her elbow digs into the mattress, and for a second I’m genuinely worried we’re going to fall off the narrow bed entirely.
But then we settle.
I’m on my side, face between her thighs again, and she’s turned so her mouth is level with my cock, which is still straining against denim, hard and aching. And as I go back to pleasing her, she makes quick work of my belt, button, and zipper.
Then her mouth is on me.
The first touch of her tongue against the underside of my shaft pulls a groan from my throat that vibrates into her center. The vibration travels through her body, and she gasps around my length. I make some sort of sound in response, my mouth still on her, and she reacts to that, too.
It’s a feedback loop.
Every lick I give her, every moan I pull from her, vibrates against my cock as she takes me deeper. I can hear her muffled moans, feel the vibration where her lips stretch around me, and it spurs me on. I suck harder on her clit, my fingers sliding inside, desperate to please.
It’s messy.
It’s perfect.
Soon after, her thighs start to tremble, and her rhythm on my cock becomes erratic because she’s too focused on her own building pleasure. A second later, I feel her cry, muffled around my length and vibrating through me in a way that nearly sends me over the edge with her.
Her hips buck against my face, grinding into my mouth as climax crashes through her, and I feel every pulse—the rhythmic clenching around my fingers, the flood of wetness on my tongue, the way her whole body goes taut and then melts.
The sensation of her coming undone against my tongue while she’s still sucking me is almost too much. My cock throbs, desperate for release, but I pull back at the last second, gasping, determined not to end this yet. And she realizes, too, because she pulls back as well.
We break apart, breathless and flushed, and I shift to position myself between her legs. My jeans are still half-on, bunched around my thighs. I try to kick them off, but one leg catches on my ankle and I have to sit up, yanking the stubborn denim free with graceless urgency.
“Smooth, Kellerman,” she murmurs, fighting a smile.
I kick the jeans away. “In my defense, I haven’t done this before…”
The laugh that escapes her is soft and genuine. “We’ll soon change that…”
I settle over her, bracing myself on my forearms so I can look into her face. Her eyes are dazed, pupils blown, and lips swollen and parted. For a second, my mind shouts at me—this is the moment you fucked up last time!—and the memory of that humiliating failure races back.
But then she reaches up, her hand cupping my jaw. “Hey, I’m right here and I want this.” Her eyes hold mine, unflinching. “I want you.”
The certainty in her voice cuts through the noise.
Her hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, pulling me down for a kiss that tastes like her and me and something new. And, as we’re engulfing each other, I slide into her. The tight, wet heat is overwhelming, and she seems to realize it, because we just pause for a moment.
I’m inside her. My body is working. I didn’t fail.
I look down at her, and the expression on her face—eyes dark with pleasure, lips parted in a silent gasp, faint flush spreading across her cheeks and down her throat—is something I want to memorize. Not just because she’s beautiful, but because she’s here with me, and that matters.
“Ben,” she breathes. “Move.”
I do.
I pull back slowly, savoring the drag, and then slide home again, setting a rhythm that’s deliberate and controlled. Every thrust is a vow—I’m here, I’m staying, I’m not running—and every stroke is proof I’m not the coward who fled from this girl.
The feeling of her clenching around me and the soft sounds she makes with every movement is overwhelming in the best possible way. But I want more. I want to feel every inch of her against me, to erase every millimeter of distance.
So I ease us onto our sides, shifting so we’re facing each other, still joined. The change in angle sends a fresh pulse of sensation through both of us, and she gasps, her leg hooking over my hip instinctively to pull me deeper.
“God,” she moans, forehead resting against mine, breath mingling in the narrow space between our mouths. “You feel so good.”
I kiss her, deep and searing, my hand stroking her hip, thumb tracing the constellation of stars tattooed there as I move within her. The intimacy of this position—face to face, chest to chest, breath shared, nothing hidden—is almost too much to bear.
I can see every flicker of pleasure cross her face, every gasp telegraphed in the widening of her eyes. But I want more. So, with a surge of confidence that feels brand new, I roll onto my back, pulling her with me until she’s straddling my lap, my cock still buried inside her.
“Take what you need,” I murmur, hands gripping her hips.
She does.
She rises up slowly, body lifting until only the head of my cock is still inside her, and then sinks back down with a deliberate roll of her hips that makes us both groan. Her head falls back, and she finds her rhythm—slow at first, then faster as she figures out the angle that makes her gasp.
I watch her ride me, feeling mesmerized. The way her small breasts bounce slightly with every rise and fall. The constellation tattoo on her hip flexing and shifting as muscles work. The look of pure, unguarded pleasure on her face, lips parted, eyes half-closed.
I’m holding back my own release with every ounce of willpower I have, my entire focus narrowed to her. I want to watch her come apart, and, soon enough, she cries out, pace quickening, hands pressing harder into my chest.
“Ben,” she gasps, my name catching in the middle. “I’m—oh God, I’m—”
“Let go,” I tell her, voice rough. “I’ve got you.”
She does.
Climax washes over her in a deep, shuddering wave. I feel her clench around me in rhythmic pulses, entire body trembling, and I watch with a smile on my face as pleasure transforms her face, erasing every line of worry and fear and leaving only raw, honest bliss.
The sight of her—beautiful, mine—shatters the last of my control.
I thrust up into her one last time, a low, guttural groan torn from my throat as I find my own release. But it’s not just physical—it’s the release of every fear I’ve been carrying, every wound I thought was permanent, every part of me I thought was broken.
All of it, finally, finally letting go.
She collapses onto my chest, both of us gasping, bodies slick with sweat.
For a long moment, we just lie there, tangled together, the only sound our ragged breathing and the faint mechanical click of the Marantz as the tape reaches its end. The sudden silence is profound, punctuated only by our slowing heartbeats.
I shift, rolling us onto our sides so I can pull her close without crushing her, her head pillowed on my chest, my arm wrapped securely around her waist. I can feel the rapid thump of her heart against my ribs, gradually slowing to match mine.
Suddenly, she lets out a small, breathy laugh. “So, looks like you’re finally on the scoreboard, Kellerman. How was it?”
The question—delivered with such devastating, loving irreverence—startles a laugh out of me. “Well, it took forever to finish, but not bad…”
She feigns outrage, gasping as she punches me gently, but we’re both smiling as I squeeze her tighter, burying my face in her hair, breathing in her scent. Then we’re kissing again, slow and deep, a kiss that feels like a promise.
This is real.
She accepts me.