Chapter 23
So, in the past few days, we might have slightly ruined the apartment. Maybe more than slightly.
The days upstairs are always a blur. Usually with clothes scattered everywhere.
We joke about how we "successfully made the place ours," which is funny until I remember the bathroom mirror is cracked from the time I pulled Ben onto me and slammed into it too hard.
Didn't even feel it, but thank god Ben caught it—he even cut himself—because that shard could've gone straight through my chest.
The dining table—love it. Dark cherry wood, classic, elegant, completely traumatized. Needs new screws, probably a new soul.
My legs? Definitely need replacements after what Ben did to them. Not recommended.
Seriously, sleeping with Ben should come with an insurance policy and a warning label.
And still, my gluttonous body wants more.
We're in the bedroom now, the light thick and gold and almost illegal in how it catches his jaw, the tiny scar above his eye, the way his lashes flare in the sun.
Daylight... We've never done this in daylight before.
And honestly, I don't know how I'm not breaking apart when I see him like this.
I'm straddling him, riding him slowly, feeling every angle, every stretch as he leans against the headboard, legs splayed underneath me, his hands mapping the curve of my spine, like a man praying.
He roams his lips over my chest, rolling my nipples, sucking on my skin, and the room is nothing but his gasps, my moans, and the scent of us.
His chest is covered in scratches and marks—my cryptic message of I love you. But that smirk on his face says I can't hide any of that.
Poetic, I know... But let me have this moment, though. I don't trust life enough to promise me it'll come again.
Ben bucks his hips and I crash into the curve of his mouth as his hands grip my butt, grinding me on top of him, harder, quicker, more desperate. He growls loudly as I moan, wrapping my arms around his neck.
Tremors come, shivering down to my fingertips—fingertips learning his face by heart.
"Emma..." His voice rasps, tethered to me.
"Ben..." I shiver, letting the quiver trail through me, through us.
And then—collision, the slam of spines together, twin hearts snapping back into one. My body starts shaking uncontrollably as he crushes me into his arms and holds me there, flooding me, wave after wave, until I'm nothing but him and a warm pool of us spilling on the sheets.
For a long, breathless minute, we hang in each other's embrace, shaking.
Then his voice fills my ears, shredded and euphoric: "This one... I'm not pulling out. I'm dying in you."
I press a featherlight kiss to his damp lips. "You're such a dramatic lover."
"I'm dramatic?" His eyes drop to his scratched chest, then back at me. "And what exactly were you trying to do here? Carve my heart out?"
I bite back a grin because that might have been the plan, but I've got my own currency to spend.
I tilt my hips and give him a view of two angry crescents from his teeth left behind. "And this? What is that? Too much? Psycho much?"
His grin turns sly while his fingers trail the mark. "That? That was a sticky note compared to what I wanted to do to you. You should be honored. I bite only what I really like." A sudden crease cuts between his brows. "Wait, did I actually hurt you?"
"Oh yeah," I breathe, over the top. “Nerve endings fried. Legs unusable. I think I need a doctor."
"On duty." He throbs inside me at the words, and a broken moan slips out of my mouth.
I give him a look. "A real doctor."
He cocks a brow at me, faux-incredulous. "You know who you're talking to? Split-second decisions. Lives in my hands daily. And you dare sexualize me?"
"You've got the perfect ass for it," I counter, assessing the hard curvature with my grip. "And you're like a sex hydra. Cut off one orgasm, you grow two more heads."
He snorts a laugh.
"Seriously, was that your third?" I ask.
"Fourth," he says. "Don't ask me how. Never happened before. You?"
"Seventh," I say proudly. Then frown at him curiously. "Is that normal? For a guy?"
"You complaining?" His smirk curls as we slide down the bed, our voices sinking into that post-storm velvet lull.
We never cover ourselves, ever.
He doesn't need it with his body temperature and I'm always tempted to steal another look at him.
Like now, as he tries to push down his glistening erection, but fails. Still a lightning bolt, impossible to ignore.
He shakes his head at it. "I'm getting blood work done tomorrow. Check my testosterone, thyroid, whatever biochemical chaos you've unleashed in me."
"So it's my fault," I say, pulling a face.
"Partly," he says right away. "I think it's all those years when I wanted to do it and didn't, all stocked up in there."
Suddenly, my thoughts rewind: Eight years, eight years of dodging every glance, every brush of his hand, every stupid story I told myself to survive. How did it land us here? In this sacrilegious moment?
Lucy might be right, though. This does feel a lot like addiction, and I know that's dangerous.
Ben presses his hand over mine on his chest and fixes his eyes on me. "You need to know something... I was always loyal before. Always. With all my partners. I'm not the asshole, not the villain you think I am. Even though..." A sharp exhale. "Now I am."
I kiss his shoulder lovingly. "It's okay, I know you. You don't have to explain. I didn't mean what I said."
Relief flickers in his face, brief as a match. "Good. But let me explain."
I go still because he has that dense look that makes you listen.
"I know I messed up when we were friends.
I never made a move. I thought you didn't want me to.
Thought you were scared of dating me and honestly—same.
" He gives me a crooked smile. "When you left, I kept replaying everything, what I should've done.
.. but you were gone, living your life. I wished I could take everything back, but it was too late. So I... went dark. It changed me."
"How?"
"Pain rewires you. I used to think you could just be a nice guy, but life doesn't work that way.
Sometimes you go against your own judgment, your own morals.
Because when you get another chance at happiness, you take it.
.. even if you're an asshole..." His jaw tenses as he clears his throat.
"I'm not exactly proud of what I'm doing right now. But I also don't regret it. One bit."
I hold his gaze, so he knows I mean what I'm about to say. "Same. I would never allow myself to do this, unless it was you."
A small smile breaks on his lips, and his lower half finally rests, so I seize the moment and press another kiss to his shoulder.
"Will you tell me about your marriage?"
That changes the mood completely.
His breathing slows and he thinks longer than usual before he sighs. "I hate badmouthing her. She was there in my darkest moments, patient, holding the pieces I couldn't."
I nod, tracing the faint scar above his eye—the one he got when he was seven running through his uncle's villa in Sorrento and slid through a bush. For some weird reason, it calms him down when I do it.
"It's not about talking bad about her," I whisper. "Just say it like it is. You're good at that."
He almost smiles, but instead, a crease forms between his brows. Maybe it's because neither of us has been particularly skilled at honesty lately.
"When Lisa came into my life, I wasn't looking for anyone.
I was empty and tired, and she was sweet and direct.
Made it easy to pretend I didn't want what I actually wanted.
She changed after the wedding, though, and became the opposite—cold and distant.
And unfortunately... I didn't change. I stayed restless. "
"In what way?"
He raises a brow at me. "You already know."
"No. Say it."
He pauses, his expression softening before he says, "My thoughts were with you. You snuck in unexpectedly when my guard was down, and I hated it because there was nothing I could do. Usually, I'm good at self-control, but as you can see, you take over my mind."
That makes me smile warmly before I frown again. "Then why marry her?"
He exhales through his nose. "You were married. I thought if I didn't move on, I'd keep haunting myself. Lisa seemed like a good fit for me. I thought if I did the right thing, maybe my heart would catch up."
"Do you love her?" The question rips out of me without me actually wanting to ask it.
He frowns, thrown off, then licks his lips and says, "In my way, I do love her, and when I met her, I was really in love. I wouldn't have married her otherwise."
That feels like ten stabs right in my chest, but I swallow, nod.
"Was the Vegas elopement her idea?"
"Yeah. We went for a trip, started winning at cards, got carried away. She wanted it, said big weddings were overrated, and I wanted to do the right thing, make her happy." He snorts bitterly at that. "It was the dumbest, most catastrophic idea of my life. Ever."
I try not to sound so desperate. "Marrying her? Or marrying her in Vegas?"
"Both. My mom never forgave me for how I handled it. Mara didn't. Neither did I."
"I'm sure they did. You just feel guilty and don't see it."
"I don't think so. After the wedding, everything changed. I tried to make Lisa and me work, in my own way, but she made it clear she didn't want my family. And I don't know how to love someone who doesn't love them. She can't even be in the same room with Mara for more than five minutes."
It's messed up that I wanted his marriage to be a disaster. I mean, I wanted it as proof I wasn't the only fool.
But seeing him like this, so hollow and knotted, there's no victory in it. Just weight, pressing against my ribs like the pain is mine.
I thread my fingers through his, grounding him. "I'm sorry. That must be heavy, but Ben? I've seen Lisa with you. You deserve the sun and the moon. Not cold distance. She doesn't treat you like a good wife."