This would be so much easier, if only her little pursed lips weren’t so fucking kissable. If only he couldn’t so vividly remember those lips wrapped firmly around his cock.
“The way I see it,” she said, “if I hear you out, you have everything to gain while I get nothing for my trouble.” She swept her hand, encompassing the length of her apartment. “All this, I did without you, despite you…why should I hear you out?”
“You could heal…” he suggested.
“Heal,” she snorted. “Who are you? I would’ve bet my Grand Prix against you ever saying the word heal in reference to a relationship.”
“Have you read my journal?” he asked impatiently.
Her skin flushed. Light burgundy spread down her chest, disappearing into the maddeningly loose folds of her robe. She was angry, yes, but the shade of her flush told him she was aroused. He would bet his life on it, screw the Grand Prix. He knew every inch of her body. Hell, he could write a dictionary to define the meaning of her every sigh, every subtle movement, every shade of her beautiful, pale skin.
“I read it in part,” she replied, although he heard her hesitation and knew she lied.
He drank the last of his beer—the fastest one he’d ever finished—and walked to the couch, hands stuffed safely in his pockets. He needed to do this quickly, like ripping a band-aid off a wound. Then, he’d get the hell out.
“I am sorry I hurt you.” The words tumbled out.
She opened and then closed her mouth…twice.
“Damn it,” she said. She inhaled as her eyes started to fill.
Even a saint would have fallen for the look she gave him. He moved on instinct, sinking to his knees and drawing her into his arms. Fuck, she felt good. He cuddled her close to comfort…only to comfort.
“I’m a bastard, I know,” he said. “But I’m getting better. I’m trying to get better.”
Her hands crept into his hair.
“You are a bastard, a selfish, rotten bastard,” she replied, sniffing. “But I want you anyway.”
Her words shot straight to his cock. I am powerless over my addiction.
Her palm’s heat against his hair drove out coherent thought. Her body’s weight rested on his shoulders, completing him, and yet stirring his need for a deeper connection.
He closed his eyes and searched his soul for the right thing to do.
Her lips touched his, feather-light.
Powerless… Ben whispered into the darkness of his heart, but no higher power answered. Lisa was his only beacon, his only light. His longing surged toward her with an ocean-tide’s unstoppable strength.
“Lisa…” Ben said her name against her skin.
His beautiful Lisa. He wanted her like parched, cracking marl wanted rain.