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His tongue stills and cold air whooshes against my skin. “You want me to come in your mouth?”
I smile to myself. Always the gentleman.
“Give me all you got,” I beg.
He groans and buries his face against me, sliding his finger inside me as I cry out.
“Take me home,” he growls.
I give him everything I’ve got, opening my throat wide, providing a deep place for him to bury his cock as he thrusts up and I match his pace, rocking back against his finger until I can’t see straight.
I gulp down his release, the warmth of it filling me as I ride out the wave of pleasure engulfing my senses until we are both still. Satisfied and spent.
Ben drags his finger out of me and I roll to the side of him, my knees shaking.
He props himself up on his side, facing me, and kisses me so deeply I taste myself on his tongue. I hope he can taste himself in my mouth, too.
His eyes linger on my face when we pull apart, and a burning ache forms between my legs at the thought of him inside me again.
Before I can suggest anything more, he hops out of bed and rummages through his suitcase, pulling out a toiletries bag. “Alright, time to get ready for bed, princess. We have a ball tomorrow and I need my beauty sleep.”
Tease.
I go through my bedtime routine with him, wishing I was a real princess who could convince him this domestic life is all we need. Brushing our teeth side-by-side, slipping into comfy pajamas, reading for a bit before he’s softly snoring behind me.
But sleep doesn’t come nearly as easily for me as it does for him. He’s Ben Steel. His life is a lot more exciting than this crazy, boring dream of mine. Asking him for anything more than this would just set me up for heartbreak, and I’ve already dealt with enough of that in my lifetime. I’ll do anything I can to avoid that kind of pain again.
“Phoebe?” Ben murmurs, half-asleep.
“I’m right here,” I whisper, letting him wrap his arm around me as I nestle into his armpit, his warm scent enveloping me and giving me the aching illusion this is all real.
“Good,” he mumbles. “Goodnight.”
I want to tell him I love him and never want him to leave my side, but that’s literally crazy. I pushed my luck by asking him to come to this dance. Anything more would land me in an asylum.
Who tells someone they love them a few days after they hook up behind a tree?
Not me. No matter how badly I want to.
Chapter Eight
Ben
“No, the table needs to be over here to make room for dancing.”
“You really think people need that much room to dance?”
“If they’ve practiced the dances I sent out in the email, yes. They actually need more, but we can make this work.”
I’m catching snippets of Phoebe’s arguments with a few of the women setting up the dance with her. Other boyfriends—I mean, other guys—are here helping me with the chairs, but with barely more energy than a corpse.
They must think they look cool with their flippant disregard. They’re also about a decade younger than me and clearly have zero idea how much cooler they’d look if they cared.
I’ve never felt so old in my life.
Before today, I delusionally thought I was the same as I was at eighteen. I mean, sure, I’ve lived a lot of life in the thirteen years between then and now, but I feel like the same person.
But being around these guys in their early twenties has me realizing why AARP is already targeting me. I’m practically in a nursing home compared to these guys. Still, by myself, I’ve set up most of the tables in the time it took them to look up how to lock the legs of their first table after it crashed to the ground.
