Chapter 15 Lila #2
“Oh, shut up,” I snap, reaching for the tray with a towel in my hand and hiss as the heat bites into my hand as it catches the oven shelf.
Ben’s smirk vanishes.
“Lila.” His voice sharpens. “Did you just—”
“I’m fine,” I mutter, shaking my hand out, ignoring the sting. “It’s nothing—”
But Ben’s already moving.
He grabs my wrist, firm but careful, turning my hand over. The skin is red, angry, the burn blooming fast.
His jaw locks.
Ben doesn’t hesitate.
His grip tightens, not rough, but firm as he guides me straight to the sink, flipping on the tap with his free hand.
Cool water rushes over my palm, sharp against the sting, but it’s not what makes me suck in a breath.
It’s him.
The way his fingers bracket my wrist, anchoring me there, his touch careful, possessive in a way that shouldn’t make my stomach twist.
I don’t know what’s worse, the burn or the way his hands feel on me.
A different kind of heat spreads through my body, creeping up my spine, tightening in my chest.
I can’t tell if I want to pull away or lean in.
That’s dangerous.
Ben’s jaw tics, his eyes locked on the angry flush of my skin.
“You should know better than to grab a tray like that,” he murmurs, voice lower now, controlled but threaded with something else.
Concern? Frustration?
I scoff, trying to keep my voice even. “I’ll add it to the list of life lessons.”
Ben doesn’t smile.
Instead, his thumb brushes just barely over the inside of my wrist, and my breath catches.
The water runs cold over my skin, but I feel scalded.
Finally, too soon and not soon enough, he reaches past me, shutting off the tap.
“Where’s your first aid kit?”
I pull back. “Ben, it’s not—”
“Where.”
The weight in his voice stills me.
“Under the sink,” I mutter, reluctantly.
Ben moves fast, retrieving it, pulling out burn cream and a cool compress, and before I can protest, he’s taking my wrist again.
His touch is gentle. Careful. Infuriatingly tender.
I don’t breathe as he smooths the cream over my skin, his fingers warm, steady, deliberate.
He doesn’t say anything. Just studies my hand.
The new burn and the old ones, because I have plenty. Faded scars. Tiny imperfections. Cuts from knives, burns from trays, a history written on my skin. I force a laugh. “Occupational hazard. You should see my mum’s hands. It’s a family trait.”
Ben doesn’t laugh.
His fingers ghost over a particularly old scar, his brows drawing together.
“Lila…”
“It’s just part of the job,” I deflect, shaking my head. “You get used to it.”
His grip tightens, just slightly. Just enough that I feel it.
Just enough that I freeze.
His eyes flick back to my hand. His fingers linger, skimming over an old scar, his jaw flexing. A breath. After a long, loaded beat.
He exhales.
Like something is breaking inside him.
Like something clicks.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. Rougher. Like he’s just now realising the truth himself.
“…I never should have left.”
The words are soft. Not even a whisper.
But they wreck me.
My breath catches. My throat closes.
All this time, pretending it didn’t matter. Of hating him for walking away and now?
Now he says this.
I don’t think.
I can’t think.
Because the next second, I’m kissing him.
Or maybe he kisses me.
I don’t know who moves first, only that it’s instant. Deep. Desperate.
His hands slide up my arms, fingers pressing into my waist, pulling me flush against him.
I fist his shirt, tilt my head, let him take more.
Because I need more.
I need all of him.
Ben groans into my mouth, the sound low, wrecked, his hands sliding into my hair, gripping tight.
He kisses me like he’s starving.
Like I’m the first thing he’s tasted in fifteen years that’s real and I let him.
Because I’m starving too.
Because maybe I never stopped.
His tongue teases the seam of my lips, and I open for him, letting him in, letting him ruin me.
His hands skim low, dragging over my hips like he owns them, pulling me flush against him, closer, deeper, until I’m breathless and burning.
I barely register the moment he spins me, backing me against the counter. Cool marble bites through my dress, but his hands, his mouth, God, they’re fire.
He palms my thigh, rough and desperate, shoving the hem of my dress higher. His fingers dig in like he’s claiming territory, like he’s daring me to stop him.
I don’t.
His mouth breaks from mine, hot against my neck, jaw tight with restraint.
“Tell me,” he growls, voice low and dangerous. “You’re not married.”
I freeze for half a second, heart hammering, breath caught in my throat.
He knows. Of course he does. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t.
But it’s not a question.
It’s a demand.
A need.
His grip tightens, lips grazing the hollow of my throat. “Say it.”
My pulse skitters. “I-I’m not.”
His eyes burn into mine, wild and unrelenting. “Say it again.”
I-I’m not married,” I breathe, the words barely making it past my lips.
But it’s not enough. Not for him.
His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his cheek as his gaze searches mine, dark, hungry, haunted.
“Is there anyone else?” His voice is low, guttural. “Anyone touching you? Anyone tasting you?”
I shake my head, breathless. “N-no. There’s… there’s no one.”
His expression shatters, something raw and wrecked flickering through his eyes and still, it’s not enough.
“Tell me again.”
My throat tightens. “There’s no one else. J-just you.”
A sound escapes him, half groan, half growl and he’s on me again, mouth crashing to mine like he’s been holding back for years.
“Then I’m not stopping,” he mutters against my lips. “Not this time.”
I don’t want him to.
Because we both know I never did.
Just like that, we’re past the point of no return.