Chapter Thirty-Four
Benji
It took me twenty minutes to convince myself I was awake.
That she was real.
Delilah. Curled into me, bare skin pressed to mine. Her cheek’s warm against my chest, her breath slow and steady, and I don’t know what I did right to deserve this. Her in my bed. My arms. She didn’t want to face the night alone, and she chose me.
Took another fifteen to convince myself to get up and not just lie there like a feral dog guarding a sacred treasure.
She whimpered when I moved.
I hated myself for that sound.
Coffee’s brewing now. I’m trying to keep it together. I nod at Mr. Wriggles on the counter, because yeah, apparently he missed me and I’ve been instructed to acknowledge him like a gentleman.
She’s too fucking precious for this world. She’s gonna break me in half with kindness and chaos and her whole terrifying heart.
I bite into a donut. One she brought. Pink icing. Sprinkles. It tastes like her, sweet, filthy, unhinged. I swear it moans in my mouth like she does when I grip her hips. Now I’m picturing her perched on the kitchen counter, covered in frosting and need.
I head back to the room, pulling on clothes slowly, too aware of her in my space. My bed. My life.
That’s when I see the note on the nightstand.
The message is filthy. Unapologetically her. My cock responds aggressively. Demands I let her know, awake, asleep, or unconscious and bleeding out you can always use me however you need to.
I stare at the note while trying to think of a proper response.
I don’t even know what part to respond to first. Do I thank her? Apologize? Offer my body as tribute? Draft a counter-note that says “Wake me up next time, I beg you”? That sounds like the opposite of consent. But also, fuck, yes.
“Thanks for breakfast and packing my lunch! Yes you can mount me at will! Also does this mean I can do the same when you sneak into my bed and I find you unconscious and naked?”
Nope. That sounds awful. But… No. She wouldn’t sleep through that. Even with permission, it’d wake her up and she’s so peaceful right now. That usual edge of bite-me-before-I-bite-you energy isn’t there.
I lean down and kiss her forehead, soft and careful, and try not to fall to pieces when she sighs like she knows I’m there.
And then stand there for way too long looking at how tiny she is in my giant bed. Delicate.
I’ll write her back when I can think like the sweet man she believes she’s found, not the one hard enough to fuck her through the mattress just from looking at how small she is in my sheets.
I leave, like a normal adult with a job. Barely. But I can’t stop thinking about that note.
Once I’m at work, I pull out my phone, still half-hard, and type the only thing that even comes close to what I’m feeling.
Me: Consent granted in advance until the heat death of the universe. Mount me at will. Ride me into hell. I’ll bring donuts and a ring.
Me: PS. Please keep leaving notes. I might frame this one. Or laminate it. For reasons.