by Sarina Bowen
Okay, I don’t know what I’m hunting for. But I’m trapped here and curious about Benito’s life. My search is unsatisfying, though. I believe he’d said that Zara was living here until recently. That must be why his closets are fairly empty. I find some ski equipment and a pair of snowshoes. The medicine cabinet contains antacids and lip balm.
In the spare bedroom there’s a couple of baby toys that must belong to his niece.
By the time I go back into Benito’s bedroom, my conscience is taking a toll. So I stop snooping and climb into his bed. I’m not relaxed, though. Rayanne is in danger.
After forty-five minutes, my phone lights up with a text from him. The Jeep is orange, not red. It has Vermont plates, and is registered to an Orange County farmer.
That’s not it, I reply.
I agree. Just thought you’d want to know.
I did want to know, and it was nice of him to tell me. Finally I’m able to close my eyes and tell my body to calm down. Except that kiss woke up parts of me that I didn’t even know were there. And the bed smells of Benito. I lie on the pillow, sucking in oxygen and trying to think of a single reason why Benito and I shouldn’t have more of those kisses when he comes back home later.
Oh, right. Because then he’d expect sex. And I’m not good at sex, and I don’t particularly like it.
Still. For him I’d try. If I weren’t upset right now. Everything is so confusing. I’m worried about Rayanne, and my heart is on fire.
So are my loins. That kiss! It still rings through me like a bell. I can feel the vibration in my chest.
But somehow I still fall asleep.
My dreams are sweet. Really sweet. I dream that Benito and I are tangled up together in bed. I love you, he whispers to my dreaming self. I love you, Skye. Just you.
And here in dreamland, sex is fantastic. Everything is white, like we’re making love on a cloud in heaven. Benito’s kisses are magical, and his hands can’t stop touching me. I see all the fireworks. Benito’s naked body is hard and warm. I caress his ass while he moves against me.
Then scruff tickles the skin of my neck, and Benito lets out a low moan. So that’s what his beard feels like. And his T-shirt is tangled up in my hand. But I swear he wasn’t wearing a shirt a minute ago.
My eyelids flutter open, and it’s mostly dark in the room, except for a gray streak of predawn light from the window. And Benito’s scruff is real. He’s here in the bed with me, holding me against his body.
I slam my eyes shut again. I need to get back to the dreamy, sexy place I was before.
Except this place is nice, too. I’m pancaked against his hard body. I’m not sure how I got here, lying on my side, my face tucked against his chest. And—this is embarrassing—one of my legs is thrown over his muscular thigh. And one of my hands is parked right on his muscular butt.
“Skye,” he murmurs right into my ear. “Sweetheart. Tell me you’re awake.” A big hand sweeps down my back.
“Nope,” I whisper, and he chuckles.
“Which is it, honey? Please be awake, because I’m loving this.”
“Shh,” I order. It’s dawning on me that my subconscious has taken control of my actions. When Benito got into the bed with me, I must have rolled toward him. And then sometime in the night I began to have sexy dreams about him.
I should be mortified. Plastering myself to Benito isn’t something I’d do. Except I’d done it. And he feels so flipping good.
“Skye,” he whispers, and it sounds like a prayer. A hot, open-mouthed kiss lands on my cheekbone. “Give me your mouth, sweetheart.”
It’s as easy as lifting my chin and fitting my lips against his. He groans as his mouth strokes mine. We don’t waste time with pleasantries. The kiss goes deep and hot right away. It’s a kiss that knows exactly what I was dreaming.
Benito’s tongue claims mine. There’s heat pouring off us, and my brain is on fire.
He rolls me onto my back and leans into the kiss. His weight on my body is delicious. I lift my knees, hugging his slender hips, holding him close, so he won’t leave me. He plunders my mouth with deep, wet kisses. And then he grinds his hips—just one slow thrust of his body against me.
“Oh,” I sob into his mouth. I want this. I wanted it when I was sleeping, and now I want it even more now that I’m awake. My nightgown has ridden up, and my panties are drenched. That never happens.
So this is what all the fuss is about.
Benito worships my mouth while his whiskers abrade my lips in the best possible way. I feel wild and loose. My hands are hungry, wandering things. I touch his arms, his back, and then reach under his T-shirt. His skin is so soft. I want to feel it against mine.
I’ve gone from asleep to heavy-duty making out in about two minutes. It’s amazing. And it leaves me no time to think. I can barely process the slide of his tongue against mine and the dragging kisses that merge from one right into the next.
It’s on. I want this. I grip his rock-hard body and try to catalogue every new sensation.
Benito doesn’t rush, though. He kisses me thoroughly, like he’s got all morning. And I guess he does, since we’re here in his bed together. It’s me who’s impatient. I want to know if he can make me feel things nobody else can.
So it’s me who works her hands up under his T-shirt to touch more of him. And it’s me who reveals that ridiculously cut chest.
Wowzers. Even if sex ends up disappointing me, the view here is loads better than with any other guy.
Benito sheds his T-shirt and then scans my body with hungry eyes. I always wanted him to look at me like that—like I was sexy and exciting, and not just a scared waif who often needed his help.
Meanwhile, my hands have taken on a life of their own. I can’t stop exploring the line of hair that begins at his sternum and runs down his belly. When I was sixteen, I ached to touch him here. And he seems to like it. When he leans down to kiss me again, his mouth is both soft and demanding at once.
I lose myself in those kisses. I forget to be nervous, even as the nightgown I’m wearing disappears with a whoosh over my head.
“This okay?” Benito asks hastily.
“Yes,” I slur. And then I can’t speak at all, because his hot, eager mouth is on the move. He kisses the underside of my chin, and then my neck.
Goosebumps break out everywhere on my skin.
He presses on. His tastes my collarbone, then he kisses his way across the swells of my breasts. And when he sucks one of my nipples into his mouth and I gasp so loudly, I’ll probably be embarrassed about it later.
But wow. I have never been so turned on. The feel of his lips on my breast is exquisite. I thought my boobs were only good for holding up jewel-toned blouses on camera.
How wrong I was. Each swipe of Benito’s tongue across my nipple makes me sink more deeply into the bed. I run my fingers through his hair and make a whimpering sound that I don’t even recognize as my own.
And then Benito moans. It’s a rich sound from his chest, and it resonates deep inside mine. I’m gripping his quilt and gripping his head and making shameless sounds. And I’m wondering if it’s possible that he feels as crazy right now as I do.
Eleven
Benito
This shouldn’t be happening. I shouldn’t be worshiping Skye’s body with my mouth. The timing is terrible and there are too many things left unsaid between us.
Also, I’m investigating her sort-of-sister for—
I can’t remember what. Christ. Her nipples are pebbled, beckoning to my lips. I caress them with my tongue as she gasps again and again. And she shivers as I kiss my way down her body. I feel wild, filling my hands with her tits, pushing her back against the pillows. Her skin tastes like everything I’ve ever wanted.
The heat in her eyes? I put it there. She’s like a gift that was never mine to unwrap. But now she’s looking up at me like I hung the moon and stars. I can’t stop.
And, damn it, she started this. I think she did. It’s difficult to
say who rolled toward whom, and whose hands wandered first.
All I know is that the last scrap of fabric standing between me and heaven has got to go. I tug her panties down and toss them over the side of the bed. Then I’m living out my best fantasies—Skye is naked on my bed. I slip a hand down her sleek torso. When my fingertips brush the small V of hair between her legs, Skye holds her breath.
“Skylar,” I pant between kisses on her stomach. Words aren’t really working for me right now, but apparently her name communicates enough. Skye’s legs relax, falling open for me. When I slide my hand over her pussy, I find so much heat and slickness. I moan, and she tips her head back and gasps.
I’m such a goner. Her chest heaves as I stroke her. And her fingers dig into my arm when I tease her. I prowl down her body again, feeling crazy. I’ve always wanted to spend a whole goddamn night exploring her. But right now it’s a struggle to go slow. I kick my boxers off while Skye watches me with a hungry gaze.
Propping myself on my elbows I dip my chin and take a first, slow lick at the honeyed center of her.
“B-Ben!” she shouts, her fingers landing in my hair. “Oh G-god,” she pants as I begin dropping tender kisses on her pussy. Her hips lift as she tries to move closer to my tongue.
I’d chuckle but I’m too turned on. My skin is on fire, and my cock is leaking against the bed. I force myself to take my time with her, licking and gently sucking on her sweet flesh. Skye is moaning and writhing under my attentions, and I’m actually shaking with need.
“Please,” she begs, as all her muscles tighten up in my arms. She’s straining for release.
I want to be there when it happens. I’m too greedy. So I sit up between her legs and give myself a single, slow stroke. I’m impossibly hard. She watches with lust-darkened eyes.
“This okay?” I rasp. I lean over toward the nightstand and tug open the drawer. There’s an open box of condoms right inside.
Skye doesn’t say anything. So before I tear a condom off the strip, I check her face. Something has gone wrong. Her gaze is locked on the open drawer, and the condoms. Her eyes are wide with surprise. And every muscle in her body is tense.
“Skye?” I say. My voice is husky, but her alarm helps to clear my head. “What’s wrong, honey?” I drop the condoms back into the drawer.
“Nothing.” She shakes her head quickly. But she won’t make eye contact.
“Hey.” I stretch out beside her. “Look at me.”
But she doesn’t. She gives me a little push instead. “Get the…” She clears her throat. “Let’s do this.”
“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.” That comes out as a growl, even though I don’t mean it to. I’m all keyed up.
“There’s nothing wrong,” she snaps.
Oh, hell no. “This is me, okay? You don’t get to do that.”
“Do what?” Now she turns to me, looking alarmed.
“Lie. Something just freaked you out, and I need to know why.” Skye had a really rough time of it as a teenager. And now I’m mentally slapping myself for assuming she was down for sex without really asking.
She shakes her head. “I was just…reminded of something stupid I did once. It’s fine. Everything is fine.”
But she doesn’t look fine. She looks the opposite of fine. I know fear when I see it. She’s already gathered a sheet to cover her nakedness. She’s in retreat.
And I need to cool off. I skim one of my shaking hands across her hair as a show of affection. But then—still breathing hard—I get up off the bed and steer my worked-up self into the shower.
How did I just let that happen?
Under the warm stream of water I curse myself for being so rash. The year I was eighteen, I was a paragon of fucking virtue. No matter how badly I wanted Skye, I never let myself reach for her like I wanted to. I spent an entire year hard for her. But I didn’t break the seal.
Now I’m thirty and obviously far dumber.
Nice going, Rossi. You dumbass. I wash my hair instead of banging my head against the tiles like I want to.
When I emerge from the shower, the bed has been made and the bedroom is empty. For one long beat, I panic, thinking Skye is gone. But then I hear the water running in the kitchen and relax again.
Skye and I are going to have a thorough chat. Very soon.
She’s avoiding, me, though. When I go into the bedroom for clean clothes, she sneaks into the bathroom for her own shower.
And, lord, she’s in there forever. I wait on the living room sofa, and at least a half hour passes before she emerges freshly dressed in another short skirt that will probably melt a few more of my brain cells. Her long legs are clad in socks that don’t cover her smooth knees. Her sweater looks soft and clings to all the right places.
When she gives me a sweet, tentative smile, I return it instantly.
God, I feel eighteen again. I’d forgotten how it feels to have a brain clouded with equal parts lust and affection. It’s a miracle I could function at all. I remember so keenly how it felt to have her clinging to me on the back of my bike, her arms hugging my chest. It was wonderful, horrible torture.
“Benny,” she says softly. “You don’t have a coffeemaker? I looked everywhere.”
“There’s a coffee shop about twenty paces outside the door,” I explain, my gaze lingering on her sweet face.
I’m so fucked.
“We might need to visit, then,” she says. “I’m no fun without coffee.”
I stand up. “We will. But first, could you come here a second please?”
“Why?”
“Just get your gorgeous, stylish self over here for a second. No harm will come to you.”
Slowly, she draws nearer, her eyes wide.
“Closer.” I open my arms. “Can I give you a hug please? It won’t take but a minute of your time.”
“Well sure. If you insist.”
She steps into my space and I gather her up in my arms. I put my chin on her shoulder and sigh. She feels so good, and it takes about two seconds until she relaxes against me.
“That's better.” I have to say it at a whisper because I don't trust my voice. “You don't have to ever be afraid of me. Not for one second.”
“I wasn’t afraid,” she whispers.
“No? Then what happened there?”
“I can't talk about this with you.” She pulls back and gives me a sheepish smile.
“Sure you can.”
She shakes her head and smiles. “Too embarrassing.”
“No such thing,” I say. “Come here and sit with me like we used to. I need to ask you something, anyway.”
She sits, and I sit right beside her, and I take her hand in mine. “Listen—I wish you hadn't stayed away for twelve years, but I understand why you did.” I stroke her palm with my thumb and choose my words carefully. “Right after you left, I spent weeks trying to figure out who your aunt Jenny was, so I could call you and make sure you were okay.” I squeeze her hand. “When I became a cop, I suddenly had the tools to find you. But I didn’t use them.”
“Why not?” she asks, then looks away, like she wishes she hadn’t asked.
“Because I thought maybe you wanted to stay hidden. I knew how hard it was for you here, and I didn’t want to make you think about Colebury again if it brought you pain. And it's not like I could call you up and tell you that Gage was gone. I want more than anything to be able to say that. But he’s still here.”
“I know. But that’s not your fault.” She squeezes my hand back.
It is my fault, I mentally correct her. But that conversation will come later. “Anyway, I had this idea that you were out there in the world somewhere having a great life that was no longer shadowed by that prick.”
“I’m doing well,” she agrees.
“I hope so. Except when I was picturing your wild, happy life, that included lots of fantastic, headboard-banging, unruly sex with someone who loves you.”
She goes still beside me. “Not so mu
ch,” she says slowly. “I haven’t had fantastic…” She clears her throat. “But it's not because I'm traumatized or anything.”
“It's not? Why then?”
“Um…” She shakes her head. “I just don't like it very well.”
“Like what? Sex?”
Her cheekbones pink up as she nods her head. “I don’t take to it. Sometimes I ruin the mood, like I did with you. Or—usually—I just sort of grit my teeth.”
“You…grit your teeth.” I know I’m repeating her again, but I really don’t understand. “You weren’t gritting your teeth a while ago when I had you moaning in my arms.”
“Well…” She blows out a hot breath. “That part was pretty great. The lead-up can be nice. Maybe that’s what all the songs are about. But the rest…” She takes her hand from mine. “It’s a disappointment—like those fancy desserts that look beautiful in the glass case but taste like nothing but empty calories. You know how that is?”
“Um…” I’m stumped. “Fancy desserts and energetic sex are two of my favorite things.”
“Oh. Well.” She picks some invisible lint off her sweater. “To each his own, I guess.”
“Help me understand,” I insist. “Which parts don’t you enjoy?”
“The sex part.”
The sex part. Now all I can think about is sex. Sliding inside her. Making her moan for me. Shit. I give myself a mental slap. “Can I assume you’ve done a thorough study of it? With people who love you and want you to enjoy it?”
She frowns. “Not super thorough, no. Just enough to know that it isn’t for me. I never see fireworks. I don’t think I’m a very sexual person. ”
I flash back about twenty minutes to Skye gripping my hair while I pleasure her with my tongue. Not a sexual person my ass.
And I know I can’t just let it go at that. Not a chance. After all this time, I can’t be so close to Skye without having our moment together.
Or more.
“Right, okay,” I say casually. “I’ll have to take your word for it. But only after one more little experiment.”