Chapter 15
This kiss was nothing like the others. There was nothing careful or controlled about it.
Ben kissed her like he was drowning and she was air, like he’d been holding back for so long that the dam had finally burst. His hands found her waist and hauled her against him, lifting her onto the counter as if she weighed nothing
Sara gasped against his mouth, her legs wrapping around his hips instinctively and bringing her aching core against the massive bulge between his legs. He groaned at the contact, one hand fisting in her hair while the other gripped her ass hard enough to leave bruises.
“Ben—”
“I need—” His voice was shredded. “Sara, I need—”
“I know.” She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. They were midnight blue, all pupil, wild with want. “I know. Take what you need.”
Permission granted, he surged forward again. His mouth traced fire down her throat, teeth scraping against her pulse point in a way that made her entire body clench. His hands were everywhere—her back, her thighs, tangling in her hair to tilt her head exactly where he wanted it.
“You smell so good,” he growled against her neck as his hand slipped under her sweater and closed possessively over her breast. “Do you have any idea how hard it’s been? Sitting next to you every night, breathing you in, and not being able to—”
She kissed him to shut him up. He made a sound caught between a laugh and a moan, hauling her tighter against him until she could feel exactly how affected he was.
Finally, she thought dizzily. Finally, finally, finally.
They didn’t make it to the bedroom. Or rather, they made it to the hallway before he pinned her against the wall, her legs still wrapped around him, his mouth fused to hers.
The plaster was cool against her back through the thin fabric of her sweater, a sharp contrast to the furnace of his body pressing into her.
“Don’t stop,” she gasped as he yanked her sweater over her head, sending her hairpins scattering across the floor.
He didn’t answer. He was staring at her, at the simple black bra she wore, at the flushed skin of her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.
The look in his eyes made her feel more exposed than if she were completely naked—raw hunger and something deeper, something that looked terrifyingly like reverence.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmured. Then he dropped to his knees.
Her breath hitched as he lifted her leg over his shoulder, pushing her skirt up as he pressed open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.
His claws pricked lightly against her thighs, a thrilling counterpoint to the soft heat of his tongue.
She shuddered, her hands bracing against the wall as he worked his way higher, his breath fanning through the thin fabric of her underwear.
“Ben,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
He didn’t respond, didn’t stop. He took his time, building a slow, devastating fire with nothing but his mouth and the teasing pressure of his teeth. By the time he finally hooked his fingers in the waistband of her panties, she was trembling, a fine sheen of sweat covering her skin.
He looked up at her, his eyes burning in the dim hallway light. “Is this okay?”
“Yes,” she managed. “God, yes.”
That was all the encouragement he needed. He eased the fabric down her legs, his knuckles brushing against her skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake. Then he leaned in and licked her, one slow, deliberate stroke that made her vision white out at the edges.
“Ben,” she gasped again, a desperate plea.
He growled against her, a low, possessive sound that vibrated through her entire body.
His hands gripped her hips, holding her steady as he explored her with an intensity that stole the air from her lungs.
There was nothing tentative about this—he knew exactly what he was doing, exactly how to make her fall apart with nothing but his tongue and the careful, deliberate pressure of his thumb against her clit.
She tried to stay quiet, tried to maintain some semblance of control, but he was relentless, drawing out sensations she’d never experienced, pushing her higher and higher until she was writhing against the wall, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
His grip on her hips tightened, not restraining her, but grounding her, an anchor in the storm of pleasure building inside her.
Oh God. Oh God.
The world narrowed to nothing except the wet heat of his mouth, the pressure of his fingers, and the rough sound of his breathing.
“Let go, Sara,” he rasped against her, the words barely recognizable. “I’ve got you.”
His name was a sob on her lips as the tension finally snapped, pleasure crashing through her in waves so powerful her knees buckled. He held her up easily, his mouth never leaving her, drawing out every last shudder until she was boneless and spent, collapsed against the wall and gasping for air.
He rose slowly, his body pressing hers against the plaster, the hard length of him against her stomach a potent promise. He braced a hand beside her head, staring down at her with eyes that were still wild, still hungry, but now soft with something that looked like wonder.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice rough. “When you come apart like that.”
She couldn’t form words. All she could do was reach for him, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt until he brushed her hands away and yanked it over his head. Soft silvery fur stretched taut over muscles that made her breath catch.
“You’re gorgeous,” she breathed.
His ears twitched. “I’m not—”
“You’re gorgeous and I won’t hear arguments.” She pressed her palm against his chest, feeling his heart pound beneath her fingers. “Bed. Now.”
He hesitated, and something in his expression made her pause. Desire, yes—that was obvious. But underneath it, a flash of uncertainty. Fear.
“We don’t have to—” he started.
“I know.” She ran her fingers through the soft fur at the nape of his neck, and he shuddered. “I know we don’t have to. But I want to. Unless you’re not ready, in which case—”
“I’m ready.” His voice was rough. “I just need you to be sure. Because once I have you, Sara… I’m not good at letting go.”
“Good.” She pulled him down for another kiss, softer this time. “I don’t want you to let go.”
He carried her the rest of the way to the bedroom.
The room was small, barely fitting her bed and the secondhand dresser she’d found at Posy’s shop.
But he didn’t seem to notice the cramped quarters or the mismatched furniture.
His entire attention was focused on her, as he stripped off the rest of her clothes and laid her out on the worn quilt like something precious.
“You’re staring,” she whispered, echoing their earlier exchange.
“I’m appreciating.”
He hesitated again as she reached for him. “I don’t want to go too fast.”
“Ben. You’ve spent three weeks going too slow. I promise to let you know if you need to pump the brakes.”
His laugh was shaky. “Pump the brakes. You sound like a driving instructor.”
“Shut up and kiss me.”
He obliged. He moved slower this time, lingering over her neck and breasts and stomach before settling between her thighs again.
He took his time, exploring every inch of her with a reverence that made her breath catch in her throat.
There was nothing rushed or frantic about it; this wasn’t just sex, she realized with a dizzying jolt. This was worship.
“You’re shaking,” she murmured, her fingers threading through the soft fur on his shoulders.
“I’ve been thinking about this for weeks,” he admitted. “Dreaming about it.”
“Good dreams, I hope.”
“The best.” He shifted, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh. “And the worst.”
She didn’t have to ask what he meant. The restraint. The frustration. The constant battle between what he wanted and what he thought he should do.
“Let me make it better,” she said.
He didn’t answer with words. He answered with actions, with the slow, deliberate sweep of his tongue and the careful pressure of his fingers.
He watched her face as he brought her to the brink again, his eyes dark with concentration.
When she tumbled over the edge, her cry was softer this time, a drawn-out sigh of pleasure that seemed to break something open inside him.
He kissed her then, slow and deep, letting her taste herself on his lips. She reached between them, wrapping her fingers around the thick length of him. He groaned, but when she reached for the button of his jeans, he captured her hand.
“Not yet,” he said softly. “Let me take care of you.”
She wanted to scream with frustration, but she also understood.
This was Ben doing things right. This was Ben proving to himself that he wasn’t the out-of-control creature he’d been before.
And his efforts to please her were very, very good.
Good enough that she finally understood what all the fuss was about regarding rabbit Others.
“Impressive,” she murmured against his throat afterward, pleasantly boneless and thoroughly satisfied despite the technical incompleteness. “Really, genuinely impressive.”
“Don’t let it go to my head.”
“Too late.”
He laughed—a real laugh, warm and unguarded. She felt it rumble through his chest, felt the way his arms tightened around her like he was afraid she might float away.
“Stay,” she whispered.
His whole body went still. “Sara—”
“I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t want to do. I’m asking you to stay tonight, in my bed, instead of sneaking out like you always do.” She tilted her head to meet his eyes. “Can you do that?”
The conflict was visible on his face—instinct versus caution, want versus fear—but something had shifted between them. The dam had broken, and there was no putting the water back.
“Yes,” he said finally. “I can do that.”
She smiled, tucking herself more firmly against his side. His arm curved around her, claws gentle against her spine, and she felt something in her chest settle into place.
“Good,” she murmured sleepily. “Because I wasn’t actually giving you a choice.”
His chest vibrated with another laugh. “Bossy.”
“You love it.”
He didn’t answer. But his arm tightened, pulling her closer, and that was answer enough.
She woke to grey morning light and the unfamiliar sensation of someone else in her bed.
For a disorienting moment, she didn’t remember—and then everything came flooding back. The kitchen. The confession. The hallway. The bed.
Ben.
She turned her head carefully, not wanting to wake him. He was still there. Actually, genuinely, miraculously still there—sprawled on his stomach with his face buried in her pillow, his ears relaxed in sleep, one arm thrown possessively across her waist.
He looked younger like this. Softer. The permanent furrow between his brows had smoothed out, and without his usual scowl, she could see the elegant lines of his features—the strong jaw, the high cheekbones, the delicate architecture of those ridiculous ears.
Beautiful, she thought. You’re beautiful, you grumpy, infuriating male.
As if sensing her scrutiny, he stirred. His ears swiveled towards her first, followed by a slow blink of those brilliant blue eyes.
“You’re staring,” he mumbled.
“I’m appreciating.”
His mouth curved. Sleepy and soft and devastatingly handsome. “Déjà vu.”
“It’s our thing now.”
“We have a thing?”
“Many things, apparently.” She stretched, feeling the pleasant ache in muscles she hadn’t used in a while. “How did you sleep?”
“Better than I have in years.” He said it simply, like a statement of fact. “You?”
“Same.”
They lay there in the grey morning light, neither speaking, neither moving. Sara felt the moment stretch between them—fragile and perfect and terrifyingly real.
“I should make coffee,” she said eventually.
“Probably.”
Neither of them moved.
His hand found hers under the covers, their fingers intertwining. His claws pricked lightly against her knuckles, and she marveled at how natural the sensation had become. How quickly she’d adapted to the particular texture of his touch.
“I meant what I said last night,” Ben said quietly. “About you leaving.”
“I know.”
“I can’t control how I feel about it. The possessiveness. It’s…” He exhaled. “It’s part of who I am. Part of what I am. I’m trying to manage it, but—”
“Ben.” She squeezed his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“No. But I can promise that I don’t want to go anywhere. And I can promise that if something ever changed, I’d talk to you about it instead of just… disappearing.”
He was quiet for a long moment. “That’s more than anyone’s ever promised me.”
Her chest ached for him. She thought about what he’d told her—about the groupies, the endless tour, the women who’d left notes thanking him for the experience. How many people had just… left? How many times had he woken up to an empty bed?
“Then everyone else was an idiot,” she said firmly. “And I plan to do things differently.”
His hand tightened on hers. When she looked over, his eyes were suspiciously bright.
“Breakfast,” he said, voice rough. “I’ll make breakfast.”
“You cook breakfast?”
“As long as it’s not eggs.”
She laughed and he finally released her hand to sit up. The covers fell away, revealing the expanse of his chest, all that soft silver fur and the surprisingly defined muscles beneath, and she found herself staring again.
“If you keep looking at me like that, breakfast is going to be very delayed.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?”
His eyes darkened. “Both.”
She grinned, feeling lighter than she had in years. “Then by all means, Thumper. Show me what you’ve got.”
He was out of bed and hauling her over his shoulder before she could react, her shriek of laughter echoing through the small cottage as he carried her towards the kitchen.
This, she thought giddily as she dangled upside down, admiring the view of his back. This was what she’d been looking for. This was what she’d moved nine times trying to find.
Home.