Chapter 22
My date was dripping wet. I wasn't much better.
"Um, okay." I watched as rainwater pooled at Ben's feet. The drive from the bar to my house did little to dry his clothes and now my entryway was experiencing flood conditions. Hurricane Ben, making landfall. "You need to take those clothes off."
"Took the words right outta my mouth," Ben said.
I raked my hand through my damp hair. The storm was bearing down hard and even the quick sprint from the driveway to the door had my t-shirt plastered to my skin. I banded my arm over my chest to keep the print of my bra from screaming through the now-sheer fabric.
"You're going to catch your death like that," I said, waving a vague hand at his chest. "And—and wet jeans are super uncomfortable.
I've walked around Canobie Lake Park after getting soaked on the log ride enough times to know how unpleasant wet jeans can be.
I remember spending most of my eighth grade class trip sitting on a bench, cursing my friends for insisting on hitting the log ride first and wishing my pants were dry.
" Another vague gesture. "You need to take those off. "
Ben motioned up and down his body. "I want to be extremely clear about what you're suggesting before getting naked in your living room because I'm not gonna fuck things up with you over a misunderstanding," he said.
"You're asking me to strip, pretty girl?
That's what you want? Right here? Right now? "
My dog Gronk, that lazy bones, chose this moment to wander out of my bedroom with a jaw-popping yawn. He eyed me with mild interest, a half-hearted Oh, you're back? Do you plan on feeding me now? snort but then he spotted Ben and the bark-a-thon commenced.
"Hey, buddy," Ben called to the pup. "Remember me from across the street? We met a couple of weeks ago. You marked my yard in fifteen or twenty spots and I gave you carrots. I thought we were friends."
Gronk stopped barking for a second, his body vibrating and his little paws tap dancing in place as he regarded Ben.
"Friend," I said to Gronk, my hand pressed to Ben's chest. "Quiet down. You don't need to defend the fortress from this guy."
That didn't stop Gronk. He went on huffing and snorting, shaking with each bark.
"I get it, buddy. You're just protecting your mama," Ben said.
He knelt down, holding out his palm to Gronk.
The pup stared at Ben, his barks quieting to low snarls.
Then Gronk inched closer. "That's right, buddy.
Come here, give me a sniff, give me some licks.
" Gronk lapped at Ben's palm. Then he growled with delight when Ben shifted to scratch his head. "We can be friends, can't we?"
"He doesn't usually like men," I said, an arm still shielding my bra from view. Leave it to me to wear a cute sailor-striped bra with a white t-shirt on a stormy day. Brilliant. "He's had some bad experiences."
"No, we're gonna be good friends," Ben argued, pushing him onto his back. He scratched the dog's belly and head at the same time and yeah, he was charming Gronk like a dog whisperer with bacon in his pocket. "Me and this guy, we're on the same team."
Ben gifted Gronk a full-body rub and ear scratch before standing up. The dog was lying on his side, his tongue lolling out as he panted. Blissed out.
Gronk wasn't the kind of dog who fell for cheap tricks like belly rubbing and head scratching.
No, Gronk made people work for his affections and he rarely granted them to men.
After the situation with my ex—the dognapper—Gronk turned his back on anyone with a penis.
Not that I blamed him. I did the same thing, mostly.
"Still want me to strip?" Ben asked, his thumb hooked around his belt buckle.
I reached for him, bringing my palm to his chest for a second as if I needed to confirm he was actually wet. Done. Confirmed. But I didn't pull my hand back. No, I went on rubbing all over him like I was marinating meat.
"You need to dry off. You're cold and wet, and that can't be a good way to, you know, watch a game."
"Terrible way to watch a game." A grin pulled at one corner of his mouth as he toed off his shoes. He pointed over my shoulder, toward the back of the house. "You got a bathroom back there? A shower, some towels? I smell like a wet newspaper and that's no treat."
Holy hell. I was the worst hostess. The absolute worst. If my aunt was here, she would've smacked my ass with a dish towel while simultaneously scooting some stuffed mushrooms under the broiler, mixing a pitcher of Manhattans, and asking whether Ben kept crystals.
I didn't know how to stuff mushrooms and I doubted Ben wanted any fungus from me, and Manhattans were out of the question on account of what the fuck were Manhattans?
And I wasn't getting into it with him on the topic of crystals.
To start with, I didn't have a Manhattan recipe at the ready. But more importantly, my aunt wasn't here. It was just me and Ben—and a zonked-out dog—and the whole night ahead of us.
"Come on," I said, waving toward Ben. "Let's get you warmed up."
With his free hand—because he couldn't possibly stop drawing my attention to the thumb tugging his waistband indecently low—he grabbed my elbow. Squeezed just a bit. "Yeah. Let's do that."
He followed me down the hall, toward the back of my home, his fingers loose around my elbow. I didn't know what I was going to do when we reached the bathroom. Was I going to watch him undress and then hop in the shower? Was I hopping in there with him?
I didn't devote much energy to answering those questions, instead pushing the door open and flipping on the lights. Before I could tear back the shower curtain, Ben hooked his arm around my waist, pulling me tight against his chest.
"I'm gonna rinse off," he said, his lips on the side of my neck. That spot was dangerous. Just real damn dangerous. I lost my sense and spatial awareness when touched there. "I'm not going to ask you to join me but I won't turn you away if you invite yourself in."
His lips brushed over that sensitive spot and Kenny Loggins's "Danger Zone" started playing in my head.
He moved around me and reached into the shower stall.
The sound of running water filled the room.
I had a flash of the locker room scene from Top Gun but instead of Tom Cruise and Val Kilmer, it was Ben.
"I'll order some food. And get you a towel too," I said, stepping back.
Distance was the key to keeping myself from jumping in there with him and I wasn't doing that right now.
Naked and showering together was one hell of a leap.
"I'll go do that now. Just leave your clothes on the sink.
I'll toss them in the dryer when I come back. "
I stepped back over the threshold, my hand curled around the door. Ben went right on grinning as he unbuckled his jeans. He knew I was thinking about bare skin and hot water. He knew it. That was the thing about Ben. He could read my mind from fifty feet away.
He pulled his t-shirt over his head, dropped it in the sink with a soggy thunk. There he was, shirtless.
A line of dark hair ran down the center of his muscled chest, his deep olive skin glowing under the overhead light.
One tattoo circled his bicep. Another ran from the ball of his shoulder down to his elbow. An arrow.
His torso's muscular cuts seemed to point toward his crotch.
His jeans hung low. Explicitly low.
He brought one hand to his waistband, the other to his zipper. "Medium rare. Brown rice. Extra provolone. No anchovies," he said.
"Huh-what?" I mumbled, my gaze glued to the space below his navel. I didn't even try to look up.
"Whatever you're ordering," he replied with a snicker. "Make mine medium rare. Or brown rice on the side. Or extra provolone if that's what you're feeling. No anchovies."
"Got it." Still staring. Still waiting for that zipper to come down. "Got it," I repeated. "No anchovies on the brown rice burger."
The zipper inched down but—dammit all to hell—his bright blue boxer briefs kept the goods under wraps. "Thanks, Magnolia," he sang. If a shit-eating grin had a tone of voice, it was that one.
Finally, I glanced up to meet Ben's sapphire gaze. "I'll be right back with that towel."
I closed the door but kept my hand on the knob for a minute.
Maybe more. I needed every one of those seconds to catch my breath as I imagined Ben climbing into the shower.
The water rushing over him, traveling down along his body's grooves.
When I heard the curtain scraping along the rod and then back into place, I gripped the knob harder.
Thought about turning it, pulling back the curtain, staring at him while he washed.
I didn't even have to get in there to enjoy this. The visual impact would do it for me.
It would do just fine.
But I shook my head and turned toward the linen closet. I was getting him that towel and snatching his wet clothes, and I was ordering food—no anchovies—and then I'd get my fill of Ben. When he was clean and dry. And clothed.
Maybe it was silly to center around this point but I'd never had a man in my shower before.
Not this one. Not here. The dognapper and I had lived together, as all slow-moving train wreck tragedies should.
Peter refused to visit the suburbs because everything about him was a red flag.
Rob was the only other man I'd welcomed into this house.
I yanked a towel out of the closet and pressed it to my face, squealing straight into terry cloth. It was a mix of frustration, hunger, happiness. All those things bubbling up into a cry that needed to go somewhere. It needed to escape me or else I'd burst.
The shower curtain screeched on the rod again and damn, I needed some WD-40 on that thing.
"I heard that," Ben called over the water.
"Heard what?" I yelled at the bathroom door. "I didn't say anything and this place isn't haunted. You're imagining things, Brock."
"Just get in here," he said, a laugh softening the command.
I pushed the door open a few inches, peeked inside. Ben leaned out of the shower stall, his shoulders looking like the broad side of a barn and his ink black hair plastered to his forehead.
"Something you needed?" I wagged the towel at him before dropping it on the closed toilet lid.
He sucked in a breath through his nose, his gaze heating me like a splash of liquid sunshine. "Yeah," he replied, his head bobbing in tiny degrees. "Yeah, pretty girl. I swore I wouldn't ask but I need you to get in here."
"I'm not having sex with you in there."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Who said anything about sex in the shower?" He was good enough to play hard at being offended. "Certainly wasn't me."
I traced the neck of my t-shirt. "Then what are you hoping will come from me squeezing in there with you? Because it is cozy."
He dropped his gaze, tilted his head toward the floor. "Just want to be close to you," he replied. "Just for a little while. Okay?"
I didn't know how it happened. I didn't know how I went from watching him through a crack in the door to pulling my t-shirt over my head or kicking off my shorts.
I didn't know where I found the confidence to walk toward him as I dropped my panties, unhooked my bra and let my breasts bounce free while he drank up every inch of me.
I didn't know how I stowed away the ever-present fear of being hurt, being used, being abandoned.
And I didn't know how I pulled back that curtain and joined him under the hot water.
I didn't know, and I didn't care because I did it. I took what I wanted, and that didn't require an explanation.
I was leaping.