And I couldn’t agree more.
These last few weeks have been the best kind of torture a girl could ever ask for, but I’m more than ready to take this to the next level and finally give in to this tempting man.
Running my hands beneath the hem of his shirt, Ben’s muscles bunch and flex under my palms as he removes my jeans, along with my underwear, and throws them over his shoulder with one goal in mind. I laugh as the scruff along his jaw tickles my neck before he continues his journey down my body and spreads my legs wide.
With a moan, I arch my back and squeeze my eyes shut as Ben’s mouth explores every single inch of me.
Every.
Single.
Inch.
My fingers tangle in his short hair, and my jaw drops open as he hits the perfect spot, his tongue swirling around the little bundle of nerves until an orgasm rushes through me like a damn tsunami.
Screaming at the top of my lungs, I drag him back up my body and fumble with the button on his jeans before using my foot to push them down to his knees until his thick cock springs forward.
“I need you inside me,” I whisper. My desperation is palpable as he lines us up and presses into me.
I’m panting into his neck as he gives me a second to adjust before slowly pulling out, then sliding right back in. His groan is the sweetest of sounds, making my soul sing as he picks up his pace and hits the perfect spot inside of me.
“Right there,” I breathe. “Right. There.”
Squeezing my eyes shut, I scrape my nails against his back and finally let go of every reservation I have. Every insecurity. Everything. Because this man has me. He knows me. He sees me. And I kind of love it.
With another low groan, his hands press into my butt to position me however the hell he damn well pleases before he burrows his head into my neck. Then he pulses inside of me and comes.
“Fuck, Kate––”
I freeze, my once liquid muscles turning into granite beneath him.
What did he just say?
Maybe I misheard him. Maybe he said something else. Maybe I’m imagining things.
As if in slow motion, I raise my hands from his heated skin, but I don’t say a word as I wait for him to make the next move.
His forehead is pressed against my shoulder as his back rises and falls in an unsteady rhythm. I can feel his softening cock still buried deep inside me, but he doesn’t move a muscle, which only amplifies my insecurities. The silence suffocates me, and it doesn’t take long before I can’t handle another second of it.
“W-what did you just call me?” I whisper, praying I’m wrong.
“Marcy….” His voice sounds like he gargled broken glass, but it does nothing to soothe the ache in my chest.
“Answer the question.”
“Marcy––”
My eyes well with tears. “Answer the freaking question, Ben.”
“Marce….”
“Get off me, Ben,” I order, my voice cracking as I push against his solid chest.
He pushes himself up but doesn’t give me the space I’m desperate for. “Marcy, let me explain.”
“There’s nothing to explain,” I cry. “I’m just going to need you to leave, okay?”
“Marcy, please––”
“Seriously, Ben. I’m about two seconds away from curling into a ball right now. Will you please let me keep an ounce of my dignity and allow me to break down in private? Please,” I beg.
“Marce––-”
“Get out of my house, Ben.” My tone is as sharp as a whip and hits him right where I need it to.
Flinching back, he looks helpless and runs his fingers through his short, wavy hair. It’s an absolute mess and is sticking up in every direction from when I wove my hands through it as I came against his mouth.
The tears start falling freely. I squeeze my eyes shut to erase the look on his face, but it’s already committed itself to memory.
“Please,” I beg.
The familiar rustle of jeans hits in my ears, but I keep my eyes closed until the soft click of my front door confirms that I’m alone.
And so much more broken than I’ve ever been in my entire life.
17
Marcy
With a pathetic whimper, I inspect my red, puffy eyes in the mirror. I look like absolute shit, which I normally wouldn’t care about. But when I can’t ignore the man who made me look this way any longer, well…that’s a different story. The phone vibrates on the counter, distracting me from my self-loathing before I pick it up and want to cry all over again.
DRBen918: Hey. Will you be at the photo shoot today? I’ve had a few parents reach out to confirm we’re still on.
Kill me. Kill me now.
Marcy123Marcy: Yup.
DRBen918: Okay. Thanks for finally answering.
Another buzz.
DRBen918: I’m sorry, Marcy. Will you please let me explain? I know there isn’t much I can say, but I feel like shit for what happened, and I really want to fix this. Please? This is all my fault.
Breathing deep, I set the phone down without answering and splash some cold water on my face when my doorbell rings.
Lovely.
Used tissues scatter my nightstand from a crappy night of trying to sleep, but I grab a fresh one from the box, then answer the front door.
“Hey,” I squeak.
Dylan’s bright smile fades as she takes in the blotches on my face.
“Shit, Marce. What the hell happened?” She places the car seat on my porch and wraps me in a hug. “Are you okay? Is the baby okay? What’s going on?”
My eyes squeeze shut as a pathetic laugh escapes me. “Baby’s fine. And physically, I’m fine too. It’s more of the emotional crap that’s wrecking me right now.”
“About what?” she asks with concern, pulling away to inspect me closer.
“Umm, you know how Ben and I have been hanging out lately?”
“Yeah?”
“Well,…things….” I swallow. “Things kind of escalated.”
“What do you mean? Did you sleep together or something?”
“Yeah. It just kind of happened, but it felt good. It felt right, ya know? Then, uh, when we were, uh, you know…he called me his wife’s name.”
Hearing it out loud is like another knife to the heart, and I struggle to keep my emotions in check. I seriously want to curl up in a ball and cry. Again. My lower lip quivers as I push out another slow, less-than-steady breath.
Dylan doesn’t move a muscle as she digests my comment. And I don’t blame her. It’s not exactly the norm to hear that one of your best friends was called the wrong name during sex by your OB/GYN, whom she’s had a crush on for months.
Why did things have to get so complicated?
Tilting her head to the side, Dylan states, “Please tell me I heard you wrong, or so help me, I will call Grady and make him kill Dr. Bennett.”
“It’s not his fault,” I defend, though I have no idea why.
Of course, it’s his fault.
Still, after everything he’s been through, can I blame him? I’m not Kate. I’ll never be Kate. He even warned me when we first started talking that she was the only thing that mattered. And I was the fool that thought I could be enough to change his mind.