Chapter 8 Friends With Bennies #2
I bite my lip so I don’t make a sound that would embarrass me in my own head.
August notices anyway. Of course he does. He always notices.
“You okay?” he murmurs, but it’s not the same question from the car. This one is quieter. More intimate. More dangerous.
I nod. “I’m fine.”
He huffs a laugh like he doesn’t believe me. “You’re not fine.”
I lift my chin, stubborn. “I’m fine.”
August’s eyes darken, and he dips his head, voice turning rough around the edges. “Mentirosa.”
My stomach flips. “I… don’t know what that means.”
He smiles like he does. “It means you’re lying.”
Then he shifts us again, one step, two, until my back is inches from the windows and his body is a wall of warmth in front of me. The city is behind me, but August is all I can see.
He raises our joined hands slightly, not a spin, just a small lift, like a question. “Puedo?” he asks.
It’s the softest ask, and it hits harder than anything else.
I nod, voice barely there. “Yes.”
“Good,” he murmurs, and he pulls me in fully this time.
Chest to chest. My hand still in his. His other hand at my waist. My fingers splayed against his shoulder like I’m trying to convince myself I’m in control.
The grind becomes a slow, deliberate pressure, the kind that makes my thoughts stutter and my confidence turn into a quiet plea.
August’s mouth hovers near mine, breath warm. “Tell me to stop,” he says, low and steady. Not a repeated check-in, not a lecture. Just a truth.
I don’t tell him to stop.
I lift onto my toes and kiss him first.
The kiss is slow at the start, like the dance, like we’re pretending this is still polite. Then his hand tightens at my waist and the kiss deepens, hunger sliding under the restraint like a blade under silk.
I pull back just enough to breathe. “Bedroom,” I whisper, because if I don’t say it now, my mouth is going to say something way more reckless.
August’s smile is brief, wicked. “Sí.”
My legs instinctively wrap around his waist as he turns, carrying me down the hallway like this was always the next step, his grip sure, unapologetic, claiming without asking.
He sets me down just long enough to kick the door shut and I immediately wobble.
“Don’t laugh,” I warn, gripping his forearm like I’m not one wrong breath away from eating hardwood.
His hands catch my waist. “I wasn’t going to.”
My wedge catches on the edge of the rug anyway, like it’s got beef with me personally.
August looks down. Then back up.
That grin. “Wedges.”
“Shut up,” I hiss, already reaching for the strap, fingers clumsy from the adrenaline.
He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t rush me. Just watches, heat in his eyes and patience in his hands while I fumble with the little buckle like it’s a final exam.
“Need help?” he murmurs, voice rough.
“No,” I lie immediately.
His thumb strokes my hip, slow. “Mentirosa.”
I freeze for half a second, then glare up at him. “I know that one.”
His laugh rumbles, soft and wicked. “Good.”
I get the strap loose and kick the shoe off with a triumphant little flick that would be impressive if it didn’t land three inches away with zero grace.
“There,” I say, breathless, like I’ve accomplished something meaningful.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low, mouth hovering close but not touching yet.
I lift my chin anyway.
That’s when he smiles. Slow. Certain.
“Good girl.”
Heat curls low in my stomach because… yeah. That did something.
Moonlight spills through the windows as my eyes drift around the bedroom, silvering the sheets and the broad lines of his body.
He sets me down on the mattress and I don’t wait.
I push up onto my hands, fingers already tugging at the hem of his shirt, dragging it up without bothering with buttons.
I need skin. I kiss my way up his stomach, slow and deliberate, lips grazing firm muscle, tasting salt and heat.
His abs tighten beneath my mouth, his breath shifting as I climb.
When I reach his chest, I pull the shirt over his head and toss it aside. My attention catches immediately on the ink wrapping his arm.
Holy shit.
My fingers trace the bold lines curling around his bicep and across his shoulder. “Holy shit,” I breathe, unable to help myself.
His mouth curves, restrained but pleased. “Yeah?”
“You’re unfair,” I murmur. “You know that, right?”
He chuckles softly and pops the button of his pants, letting them sit low on his hips. Black briefs peek out, tight and unapologetic.
“Hi,” I say, failing entirely at casual.
August pushes his hair back, moonlight catching in his eyes as they track me. The look isn’t rushed. It’s focused. My body reacts instantly.
I scoot higher on the bed, testing him. He catches my ankles and pulls me back in one smooth motion, firm but careful.
“Easy,” he says quietly. “You’re not going anywhere.” His voice drops. “Not unless you ask.”
My breath stutters. “Not planning on it.”
That earns me a slow, knowing smile. “Good.”
He lifts my ankle, kissing the inside of my leg with unhurried precision, each press lighting my skin. He moves higher—hip, stomach, the space between my breasts—before sealing his mouth over mine. The kiss is deep, controlled, like he’s anchoring me instead of taking me apart.
He tastes like wine and something unmistakably August. I lose track of time.
His thumb traces over me, mapping what’s already his to learn. Carpe diem on my foot. The dreamcatcher beneath my breast. The sais on my wrist. The dandelion on my shoulder.
“You’re incredible,” he murmurs, not as a line, but a fact. His gaze doesn’t flicker. “All of you.”
Something steadies in my chest at the way he says it. Seen. Chosen.
He spreads my thighs slowly, giving me time, leaning down to brush soft kisses along my inner thighs. Anticipation coils, sharp and delicious.
His fingers hook the waistband of my panties. He pauses, eyes lifting to mine. “Okay?”
I lift my hips.
He peels the fabric down deliberately, letting the cool air hit my skin. His gaze darkens, reverent instead of hungry.
“God, Harlee,” he says quietly. “You’re stunning.”
I bite my lip, fighting the instinct to fold in on myself. To cover. To apologize for wanting.
Instead, I reach for him.
My fingers curl into his shoulders like I need something solid to hold onto. He’s warm and broad and too real for the part of me still trying to pretend this is just a choice I made with my brain.
“August,” I whisper.
It comes out soft. Not shy. Just… honest.
He stills.
Not pulling away. Not rushing. A pause that feels like a hand on the back of my neck. Grounding. Warning.
“Hey,” he murmurs, mouth grazing the corner of mine. “Talk to me.”
My throat tightens. Heat floods my face. I hate how quickly my body betrays me.
“Please,” I manage. One word. All my dignity hanging off it.
His exhale is slow. Controlled. Like he’s counting.
“Okay,” he says, and it lands heavy. Not triumphant. Not smug. Just certain. “I’ve got you.”
He lowers himself over me, deliberate, solid, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress like a claim I asked for. His mouth takes mine, unhurried, and my body arches without permission.
Thought fractures.
His mouth. His hands. My pulse. Too much. Not enough.
His palm drags down my side, a slow sweep that maps me like he’s memorizing the outline for later. When his thumb brushes my nipple through my bra, barely there, my breath snaps.
He feels it. Of course he does.
“There,” he murmurs against my lips, voice turning rough at the edges. “Right there.”
I make a sound that’s not words.
His fingers slide lower, skimming the inside of my thigh, teasing. My hips lift on their own, begging before my mouth can.
He catches my chin gently, forcing me to stop hiding behind breath and noise. “You can tell me to stop,” he says, steady. “Anytime.”
It shouldn’t make me ache. It does.
I nod once. Tiny. Furious at myself for how much I like being handled carefully.
“Good,” he murmurs, like it’s praise and permission all at once. Then, quieter: “Now tell me what you want.”
My mind goes blank in the worst way. In the best way.
I swallow. “Touch me.”
A slow smile tugs at his mouth. Not playful. Focused. “as you wish.”
His hand finally slips between us, and when his fingers find me it’s… deliberate. Like he’s testing the way my body reacts. Like he’s taking inventory.
I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders.
“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead dipping to mine. “You’re already—” He cuts himself off, jaw tight, like he doesn’t want to scare me with how badly he wants it.
My chest feels too open. I hate that. I love it.
He circles my clit slowly and my eyes flutter shut. A sharp inhale. A helpless tilt of my hips.
“Don’t run,” he murmurs.
I blink my eyes open, startled.
His gaze holds mine, steady as a lock clicking into place. “Stay with me,” he says. “Right here.”
My stomach flips. My whole body obeys.
His mouth moves down my throat, open and hot, biting just enough to make my breath hitch, then soothing it with his tongue like he’s making a point. Like he’s teaching me what it feels like to be taken seriously.
The heat builds fast. Too fast.
I grab at him, needy. “August—”
“I know,” he says, voice low. “I can feel you.”
He shifts, lifts my hips with effortless control, repositioning me like he knows exactly where to put me so I can’t lie to myself about what I want. My legs tremble, suspended for a second, then he settles me back down with maddening care.
His breath ghosts over my inner thighs.
I shiver hard.
“God,” he murmurs. “Harlee.”
The way he says my name does something nasty to my spine.
He kisses the inside of my thigh, slow. Another. Higher. Unhurried like he has all night and plans to use it.
I exhale a laugh that sounds like it hurts. “You’re… doing this on purpose.”
His mouth curves against my skin. “Sí.”
A pause. His lips brush the sensitive spot again, and his voice drops even lower, velvet over steel. “You asked me to be honest, princesa.”
My throat goes tight.