by Sarina Bowen
It’s easy to obey an order like that. Again I seek his mouth. It feels great on mine and tastes even better.
And then he takes over—touching me and kissing me and whispering the most lovely things. “Need you.” “Beautiful.” And finally, “Let go, honey. I’ve got you.”
Let go. It’s not something I do very often. But when Benito whispers it into my ear, I take a deep breath and let it all out—all the heartbreak, all my disappointments. I slam my eyes shut and just let myself experience everything at once.
He thrusts slowly, and then sucks on my tongue. That’s when it happens. Fire and color and trembling release. It’s bright and pure and a long time coming.
So to speak.
God only knows what sounds I make, but Benito’s approval is immediate. As my body shimmies around him, he pushes me onto my back with a happy growl and pumps his hips.
That’s when I realize he’s been holding back. And I appreciate how careful he’s been with me. Except the power of Benito not holding back is pretty awesome. The desperate noises he makes are raw and unguarded. Only moments later his muscles lock up tight and his body shudders over mine, his tongue a hot brand against my own. Then he makes a soul-deep sound of satisfaction.
Wow. Okay. I’d be impressed except I can’t move or even think.
Neither can Benito. He collapses over me, then slides off, pulling me with him. I’m wrapped in powerful arms as one big hand skims down my hair. He takes a deep breath and exhales in a mighty gust.
We just lie there for a while, catching our breath. My body feels amazing—loose and well-used. All my anxieties have flown away. But I am very emotional all of a sudden. My eyes get hot and I blink against unshed tears.
Do not cry, I order myself. Don’t wreck your only experience with awesome sex.
Needing air, I twist out from under Benito and sit up, swinging my legs off the side of the bed to face away from him.
“What’s the matter?” he whispers immediately.
“Nothing,” I say in an almost normal voice. “I’m just…” I clear my throat. “You were right.”
“About what?” His hand lands on my bare back, where it caresses me.
“When I was sixteen, I wasn’t ready for this.” I’d thought I wanted it. But I don’t think I was capable of a sexual relationship that was healthy for both of us.
“Yeah,” he says softly, his fingertips tracing my backbone. “I loved you, though. If Gage wasn’t there to make your life a living hell, I don’t know what might have been.”
All this time I’ve been blaming Benito for standing me up for a stupid date. But he was there for me a hundred other times when I’d needed him. I reach a hand behind my back and give his a squeeze.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Absolutely,” I say immediately. “Even if I don’t know what it all means. And I don’t know what to do now.”
“You don’t have to do a damn thing. All I ever wanted you to do was stick around.”
Oh, man. “But I can’t promise that.”
“I know,” he whispers. “Deep breaths. Let’s sleep. Then let’s find your sister. One step at a time, okay?”
“Okay,” I agree. I get up and visit his bathroom, composing myself while I get ready for bed.
After that, Benito does the same. Except he comes back to bed naked, whereas I’m sitting up against the headboard, wearing my nightgown. “You don’t need this,” he says, gripping the fabric and tugging it upward.
“I don’t?” I say, but I let him pull it over my head.
“No ma’am. We have this warm bed and these quality sheets. And I’m going to hold you like I always wanted to.” He tugs on the quilt and then tucks me against his naked body. “Never got this night with you, but I’ve dreamed of it often.”
I have, too. He deserves to know, but it would cost me too much. I’m still the cautious one. I don’t know how to stop holding back. I don’t know if I ever can.
Even so, I’m happy to be here. I roll over and wrap an arm around his fine chest. I kiss his neck. And it’s so nice, I do it a few more times.
He turns his chin to give me better access. Then he runs a hand down my bare hip, and my lady bits wake up again and say, Woo-hoo! We love sexytimes! Because apparently I do. I’m not broken, after all.
I don’t know the protocol, though. Benito probably needs his sleep. But his skin feels so fine against mine that I feel the need to suck gently on his neck.
And he feels the need to play with my breasts until they’re heavy and pebbled again, and supersensitive. We move on to kissing, which we do until my lips are bitten and raw. And then Benito pushes me onto my back and grabs another condom out of the drawer.
I don’t even blink this time. I’m just glad they’re in there.
He makes love to me again, until we’re both sated and exhausted.
Then there’s more cuddling.
I guess Benito is not all that worried about getting enough sleep, after all.
As we lay together in the dark in the wee hours, I feel drunk on my own happiness. “How did you get this awful scar?” I whisper, tracing a jagged white line down his ribcage. The blemish only makes him look stronger and more beautiful.
Do I have it bad, or what?
“I got knifed by a teenager in Iraq,” he says with a yawn. “That ended my tour in Iraq. But I was dumb enough to go back over to work for a military contractor, thinking that would be better.”
“It wasn’t?”
He shakes his head. “One thing I learned about war is that everybody always thinks he’s the good guy. That kid who cut me imagined himself the righter of ancient wrongs. I was only offering to kick the soccer ball around with him.”
I trace the scar again. “But everybody can’t be the good guy.”
“No.” He brushes my hair off my face. “But that’s why I catch bad guys in Vermont now. My odds of knowing who’s a dirtbag and who just needs help are so much better at home. In the military you have to take it on faith that you’re shooting at the right people. I don’t really want to shoot at anyone.” He thinks that over a second. “Well, almost nobody.”
I lay my head down on his chest and listen to his heart thump. Best sound ever.
Twenty-Two
June, Twelve Years Ago
Zara is wearing a nice dress for grad prom. It’s better than she can afford, and it’s the nicest dress she’s ever owned. Her mom gave her some of the money, and her mom’s friend altered the dress so that it fits perfectly.
Still. It’s not the perfect dress. There was one she liked better, but it cost twice as much. And now, as Zara rides beside Jill Sullivan toward the pre-party, Zara can’t see how beautiful she is. She doesn’t know that eighteen is stunning in its own right, or that her shining dark hair and olive skin make her glow with a beauty that doesn’t need designer labels.
It’s the rare eighteen-year-old who understands that, though. Zara isn’t alone in her failure to appreciate the perfection of being eighteen. None of them do.
For example, Jill Sullivan’s thoughts are similarly irritable at the moment. Her dress cost a small fortune in Vermont terms. She made sure to tell Zara several times that she paid full price—two-hundred-fifty dollars—in a Boston boutique on a shopping jaunt with her mother.
But her shoes are all wrong. If she could have just gotten the Prada heels, too, it would have made the whole outfit.
Jill and Zara are both going stag to grad prom. They told all their friends that tonight was meant for spending together as a class. But each of them is really going stag because the right boy didn’t ask.
In fact, Jill turned down an invitation from Bill Hurley. She doesn’t regret it, because she doesn’t want to hook up with Bill Hurley, even though he’s reasonably attractive. But he’s no Benito Rossi. So what’s the point?
All anyone can talk about is Benito’s date. He asked her to grad prom. After a whole year of telling people that they’re just friends, he up an
d announces that she’s his date.
Jill feels a little sick just thinking about it. In two hours she’ll have to watch Benito hold Skye in his arms during the slow dances. And Jill won’t be able to boast afterward that she and Benito hooked up, because this time nobody will believe her.
In her dreams they do, though. Every night.
“Slow down,” Zara hisses beside her. “Cop car!”
Jill’s angry thoughts have given her a lead foot, and she’s speeding, damn it.
“Oh, shit,” Zara says, her voice low and scared.
Sure enough, there are blue and red flashing lights behind them. Jill pulls over immediately, saying a silent prayer in her head. Please don’t let it be the scary cop.
In the passenger seat, Zara is openly panicking. “Why were you speeding?”
“I was going forty-five!” Jill argues, her eyes in the rearview mirror. Even as the cop’s door opens, she can see those mean eyes.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Zara pulls her cell phone out of her bag and begins texting madly, her fingers flying over the keys.
“What are you doing?”
“Texting Benito that he pulled us over. He told me to tell him if we’re ever stopped.”
Jill rolls down her window and smiles, hoping to look friendly and guileless. “Hi officer. Is there a problem?” The cop’s boots are audible on the pavement as he approaches, and she feels each footstep in her gut.
“Ladies,” he says with a slow grin. “Why don’t you step out of the vehicle.”
“Step out?” Jill asks. “Why?”
“Because I told you to,” Gage snaps. “That’s reason enough, aint it?”
Zara knows this is bad. Her hand is shaking as she releases the door to step out of Jill’s white Mustang. They’re over on the shoulder, so she’s already scuffing her mom’s best pair of heels. Mom will lose it if she ruins them.
“Don’t we look nice tonight,” the cop says, making it sound sinister. “Going somewhere special?”
“To grad prom,” Jill says. “My boyfriend is waiting.”
Zara has to give Jill credit for that bit of improvisation. There is no boyfriend, of course. Zara feels naked in her sexy new dress. And they’re on a lonely turn of the country road that leads to the pre-party at Brent Hickey’s place.
She doesn’t even know if her brother got the text she sent. He might still be at the florist picking up the corsage he bought for Skye, or maybe he’s back already, and they’re off somewhere staring into each other’s eyes like they do.
“You were speeding,” Officer Gage says. “Doin’ forty-two in a thirty-five.”
“Jeez,” Jill whines. “My dad will kill me if I get a ticket.”
“What do you think?” Gage asks, turning to Zara. “Should I let her off? Hi, neighbor. How come you haven’t been around so much lately?”
Zara’s insides clench. “I don’t know,” she ekes out.
“No?” he asks, patting his gun holster. “I’m not sure if I should let her off. You want me to?”
“S-sure,” Zara says lightly. “I don’t know how it works.” She’s getting freaked out by the hard look in his eye, though. And all that attention.
“You got a date tonight, too?” he asks.
Zara shakes her head, and then wonders if she should have nodded.
Gage laughs. “How ’bout I make you girls a deal. No ticket.”
“Thank you,” Jill says quickly.
“I’ll let you off, if the Rossi girl gets me off. She can come right over here and get down on her knees for me in the pretty dress.”
Jill gasps, and Zara’s hands get clammy. Her heart is racing, too.
Zara is known for her smart mouth. Her family says she has the sharpest tongue in Vermont. But not when Gage talks to her like that. She knows she should argue, but she trembles instead.
“What?” he sneers. “Like that’s something you don’t do? Please. Bet you get down on your knees every weekend.”
She is frozen in place, staring down at the gravel just in front of his boots. The cop isn’t wrong. At eighteen, Zara has given a generous number of blowjobs already. Not one of the recipients terrified her, though.
This isn’t the first time Gage has said terrible things to her. This is, however, the first time she thinks he’ll actually make her do it. In front of Jill, no less. The whole town will know by tomorrow. They boys at school already call Zara a slut. But this will be much worse.
Zara sucks in a breath. Her throat and eyes are stinging but she will not cry. He wants that too much. She may have to blow him, but she is not going to give him any fucking tears.
Just as she’s making this small but important decision, she hears a faint buzz. It’s not the rapid beat of a June bug’s wings, but something better.
Benito is approaching on his motorcycle.
Jill turns her face toward the sound, too. She’s as tuned to the Benito channel as anyone. And there he is a moment later, flying toward them with a corsage box held awkwardly in one hand even as he steers his Triumph.
He wastes no time parking behind the cruiser and marching forward like a soldier. “Problem?” he asks with as much gravitas as a guy holding flowers in a box really can.
“No problem,” Gage says easily. “You can just move right along.”
Benito shakes his head. “Can’t do that, sir, until I know my sister and her friend are on their way. Has there been trouble?”
“Not yet,” Gage growls. “But there will be if you don’t get.”
Benito walks up to Jill and hands her the box. “Here, honey. Hold this for me.” His hands are free. He stands between Zara and Jill and flexes his fingers. He doesn’t say a word, though. He just lifts his chin and looks right at Gage.
Zara is trembling. She knows something bad is still going to happen, and yet she’s filled with relief. Because she needed Benny and he showed up. And she’s not on her knees pulling out Gage’s gross old-man dick while he sneers at her.
“I’m responsible for these two,” he says to Gage with the steely calm of a CEO addressing his board room. “So whatever’s wrong, I can help.”
“Yeah?” Gage snarls. “You gonna suck my dick, too? Because that’s what your slut of a sister was about to do when you drove up.”
Oh shit. Zara notes the way her brother stops breathing. And she watches him curl his hand into a fist. Her brothers have thrown a lot of punches for her these past few years. But never at a cop.
No, Benny, she prays. Keep it together.
And maybe he would have if Gage hadn’t kept running his mouth. “I heard you enlisted,” Gage says. “Sad to hear you’re leaving the neighborhood. After you go it will be just me and Skylar all alone in the house together. Won’t that be fun?”
Then he laughs.
Benito’s fist flies through the air and into Gage’s nose. Jill and Zara both scream as Gage dodges the worst of the impact and then punches Benito right in the kidney.
The sound of pain her brother makes will stick with her for at least twelve years.
Twenty-Three
Benito
The day begins with a gasp.
Skylar sits straight up in my bed, the covers falling away from her glorious, very naked body. “Rayanne didn’t text!”
“What?” I’m distracted by the profile of her perky breasts. My blood stirs. Again.
“I turned the volume up really loud, but Rayanne didn’t check in at midnight.” She’s already grabbed the burner phone off the nightstand to check. “There’s nothing here. Something’s wrong.”
Oh, shit.
Sitting up, I wrap an arm around Skye. “Okay, let’s think.” I pull her against my chest and kiss her neck. “Send her a message right now.”
“I can’t,” Skye whispers. “She told me that was dangerous.”
“In the daylight it might not be a big deal, if she’s trying to hide in the car.” I point out. The sun is already burning away the dark
ness, at least in the Eastern part of the sky. “Let’s get up, get some coffee, and figure out what to do.”
She leans her head back against my shoulder. “God, if something has happened to her…”
“Maybe not, though,” I stroke her bare hip. “Maybe she just fell asleep, you know? Let’s not panic just yet.”
“Okay. But I feel so guilty. She’s out there somewhere, hiding from something, and I’m here…”
“Having really good sex with someone who loves you?”
Skye turns sharply, her blue eyes wide with surprise. “Benny,” she whispers.
“What? I’m not supposed to say that? Sorry, honey. Some things are true whether it’s convenient or not.” I count them up on the fingers of one hand, held out in front of her. “Global warming. Neurotic families. I accidentally bought whole bean coffee instead of ground. So we can’t make coffee this morning after all. Four—your stepsister is a flake who’s doing things the hard way. And Five—I loved you from the first day I met you. That’s never going away.”
She grabs my hand and pulls it to her tummy. As if stopping my counting might shut me up. As if.
“Look, I know you’re stressing,” I tell her. “Go do whatever it is that takes you half a fucking hour to get ready to go to the coffee shop. Or—wait—I could just stumble over there and buy coffee and bring it back.”
She whirls on me. “You go in there with sex hair and buy two of everything and the whole town will know we stayed up all night.”
I chuckle, because that sounds about right. And I really don’t see the problem.
“Twenty minutes,” she says, sliding out of my arms. “Twenty-five if I have to deploy the extra-strength concealer.” She walks away from me, her perfect ass drawing my eye down to long, smooth legs.
I let out an unmanly groan of longing. She doesn’t even break her stride.
When Skye emerges, I take a two-minute shower and tame my sex hair. So it’s twenty-seven minutes later when we enter the Busy Bean together. I must look perky in spite of my lack of sleep, because my sister takes one look at us and bursts out laughing. “Wow,” she says. “I was going to ask why you two disappeared early last night, but maybe I won’t bother. Coffee?” She reaches for two mugs.