Other Side of Beautiful (A Beautifully Disturbed #1) (14 page)

Chapter 26

Elle

He has me buckled in his Jeep and we’re driving. It all happens that quickly. Ben’s eyes stay on the road, but I can’t peel my eyes away from his erection looking ready to go all Incredible Hulk through his jeans. The fifteen minute drive passes like two. Then it’s the two of us standing at his door. In his apartment. In his room. On his bed. Ben’s room calms me. It smells just like him. I close my eyes and breathe in so deeply I could get high off the dust particles.

“Tell me this is okay. Tell me you want me.”

I do. I do want him. I’ve always wanted him. Wanting has never been my problem.

“Tell me it’s okay to touch you, Elle.”

“Touch me, Ben.” His hands move softly but with more purpose than I’ve ever seen them move, touching every place a woman wants to be touched. But then his hand moves to the hem of my blouse, working underneath. The lights are on. He can’t see me with my clothes off. He just can’t.

Old flesh wounds of the heart hash open. I want to be this woman, this girlfriend. The one who can love him physically. It seems so unfair that I could give my body to one man, but not the one I’ve given my heart. Then again, isn’t that the problem? Isn’t my poor decision making to blame here?

There’s a flutter of panic in my chest, but I want to give him something. Without betraying my secret, I want to give him something to hold onto. Me. I’m tired of running. Of spiraling. I just want to stop and catch my breath. Is that so much to ask? It’s not. It’s not too much to ask, and I refuse to believe otherwise.

This is my moment, the one I choose to stop running. As Ben pushes his hands under my blouse, I flip us over, sitting on his legs. His eyes go wide. And his smile splits across his face ear to ear. And then it’s gone. So brief. Replaced by startling intensity. He tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear, holding his fingers to my cheek using the softest of touches. I wasn’t nervous before he looked at me. Now, now I can’t bear the thought of disappointing him. He’s had a lot of women. I need to be good for him, to make myself memorable at least. He needs to remember tonight even after we’re over. He needs to remember what he meant to me in this moment. I call on my ritual one more time, then just go for it. Dragging myself slowly up the length of his body, catching the hem of his shirt between my teeth, bringing it up to expose all those cut planes of muscled abdomen. Bronze statues should be sculpted in his likeness. He’s such a sight to behold. I take my time admiring.

“Elle.” His voice is a warning.

I lick my lips in response. It’s now or never. I choose now and attack his mouth. He tries to flip us back over but I push on his shoulders while tugging his shirt the rest of the way up over his head. The muscle in his jaw ticks. Not agitation. Restraint. Ben is restraining himself from taking over. Letting me set the pace, which is exactly what I need him to do.

And so I push up, leaning back on my heels, and reach over to the corner of the bed where my purse landed. He watches closely as I reach inside, bringing out a hard peppermint candy from the front zippered pocket. I take my time unwrapping it, making sure his eyes follow as the sweetness slips into my mouth. Swishing the candy around several times before leaning back, I kiss him again. Moving down. Down. Down. When my fingers flick the button on his jeans, he knows without a doubt where my intentions lie. Those rumors did not exaggerate. He’s glorious to behold. I’m both humbled and awed that he chose me. That his reaction is because of me. Benton Hayes reacting to Elle Dinninger the way Cricket said no man ever would. One more pass with the hard candy. Pressure from the peppermint both cool and burn, a paradox as we fuse more than just body parts. A mouth is different than a hand. I hope I’m doing it right.

The beautiful burn of the peppermint still present.

This is confidence. My confidence growing, tempting, taunting. A power I’ve never felt. Not ever in my life. “Oh—
fuck
!” He has his hands covering his eyes now. “Babe, Brontë. I’m not gonna last,” he pants. Literally pants. Gone is the warning, commanding tone, replaced by a voluptuous, velvet pleading. He pleads as his abdomen contracts, but I stay, growing my confidence until the very last second. Until he calls out my name, “Baby—shit, Elle!” That’s when I pull away, right before he unleashes, hitting my neck, hair, and my shoulder.

“I—” He stops midsentence. Stares at me. “You are amazing.”

“So you liked it?”

“Liked it? Holy shit. You’re wearing how much I liked it all over your shirt. No one has ever—you are amazing,” he repeats himself.

Now that we’ve finished, the confidence begins to wane a little because I’m not sure what to do with myself. What is proper etiquette for an aftermath? I’m a mess. I need to not be a mess. Awkward can really be the only word for what I do next. Patting his leg. I actually pat his leg before pushing up off the bed, as if telling him “good job,” because that’s surely what a Hilary or Kelsey would do afterward. So now I need to put a little distance between us, to check my embarrassment before it flies out of control and ruins our evening.

“Can I borrow a shirt? I’m going to get cleaned up.”

“What’s mine is yours. You can have anything you want.”

The light blue Pac-Man T-shirt. That’s my favorite. It’s the one he wore to the concert. The one that led us to here. I grab it from the dresser, heading to the bathroom where I wash my neck and hair in the sink then carefully pull off my shirt, submerging it in hot water to soak. That transition happened smoothly enough. I think I really did do what a Hilary or Kelsey might do.

He looks to be sleeping when I first make it back to the bed, but Ben pats the comforter next to him. He pats the bed and I drop down next to him because we are in a good place again, I think. A really content place.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know. But I’m so glad you did.”

“It was nothing. Nothing more than you deserve.”

“No. I know you. It was definitely something. And for the record, any man who would rather have relations with a greased pig than what you just gave me has some major issues going on.”

Chapter 27

Ben

Like I don’t know what she’s doing. She’s stalling, and she doesn’t have to, because I will never push her for more than she’s ready to give. I should’ve stopped her. Seeing such an amazing woman move down my body, tentative and seductive at the same time, I couldn’t. I just couldn’t stop her.

When she took me into her mouth, that first touch, when her lips touched my skin—it felt like falling. Seriously. Like falling autumn leaves captured by the wind, twisting and swirling over the breeze. Until the sensation from that peppermint just about undid me. The burst of super-chilled air proving winter to be just around the corner. Yeah, that did it.

I haven’t wanted to love somebody for so long now. And I want to. Damn it, I want to. Maybe it’s too late. Maybe I’ve been closed off from the idea for too long. But she gives me hope. Hope isn’t something I thought I’d ever see again, or that I ever had a right to it.

The future that plays out for me now that she’s here differs in ways I never thought possible, differs greatly from the future I faced without her.
My Grand would love her
. What the? I’ve never thought that about a girl before. And more than that, I want to make it happen. She’s going to trust me. My Brontë is going to love me despite herself or her feelings of inadequacy. Fuck inadequacy. She’s my destiny, I think, and I’ve never believed in such things before. The more time we spend together I want to believe in it. If she thinks she’s the only one who’s scared—hell, I’m scared. And she has my head twisted all around thinking about home and family. Things I never thought I’d ever want, because I never want to end up like him, like them. But I’m aware, right? I can keep us from ending up like them.

“Ben?” When she whispers my name it sounds more like a prayer than a question.

I don’t respond with words. She deserves more than that. For two years I’ve known and loved this woman, written her words that I thought for sure would reach her. And for two years I thought I had a handle on who she is as a person. Allowing herself to get close to me, I don’t think she has a handle on who she is as a person anymore.

I’m here. I want her to know I’m here and that the person she is now or is becoming, she’s still the person I want to be with. All these thoughts, they’re just words to her right now. My words are never empty. Not when it comes to Elle, especially. If I can’t use words, I have to use something else to ease us into the rest of our lives. My girl, she’s still holding back for whatever reason, but there are ways to repay her kindness and to show a little of my own. Baby steps.

God, she’s beautiful. How could she think otherwise? How could she believe Cricket over what she sees in the mirror every day? Over the emotions she puts down on paper, or most importantly, over the love, respect, and loyalty she showers us with even if in her own way?

“Prepare to be repaid,” I tell her, capturing the shocked slant of lips with my teeth.

***

It hits me right now. Right now is the first time I’ve thought about Andrew all night. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, so I don’t know how to feel about it. Shouldn’t I still be sad? I mean, I am sad, I’ll always be sad that he’s not here anymore, but she makes it feel better. She makes
me
feel better, like I have a right to not spend my time wallowing in the mire of sadness I’ve been drowning in for the last three years.

That, I think, will be my biggest regret in life—Elle not getting to meet my brother. He would’ve loved her. People always said we looked so much alike. And we did, but he was a much bigger flirt. Andrew would have loved the way she blushes so easily and made it his life’s goal to make it happen as many times as humanly possible.

I look down when I feel something moving. Elle is snuggling against me, her leg flung over my hip and her arm on my chest. She’s half lying on me, still sound asleep. She makes little soft rustles, not snores, they’re softer, more delicate puffs of breath that I’m sure not anyone else including Kelly knows she makes, because they aren’t something Kelly would ever listen for. They’re my own little piece of Elle that I don’t want to share with her, because then two of us would know. And I like being the owner of this secret. It’s a part of her I can keep locked up safe in my heart, just mine to take out and remember when I need to smile.

She shifts again, snuggling deeper, and I drape my arm around her shoulders, tucking her even closer against me, reaching with my free hand to bring back up the covers she’d kicked off. I almost can’t reach without shifting but manage to nip the edge between my middle and pointer fingers, bringing it back up to tuck around the both of us. Her cheek moves from my chest to nuzzle my neck. She lightly kisses my Adam’s apple, but she’s sound asleep and now I know it’s not happening for me tonight. How can I sleep when she’s kissing me, no matter how brief or unconscious she is? Honestly, I don’t want to risk missing if only one breath, kiss, or touch. My bed, our bed, is a crystal ball, because if I’ve said it once, I’ll say it a million more, I’m staring at my future.

Man, my brother would give me shit about her, how she’s totally whipped me. And then he’d say I was abso-fucking-lutely right.

When she finally does wake up, she pins me with the sexiest, loving stare shadowed under these freshly awakened hooded eyes. We’ve made it to Valentine’s Day. Never have I had such a perfect Valentine’s Day, and we’re literally only minutes in to starting ours together, the first of many perfect ones to come. I’m watching her too, looking every bit as warm and content as I feel. The comforter dips more than when I tucked it up around her before, but her cold feet still press against my leg for warmth. I don’t know if this is how it is for everyone, or if this is what falling in love—affection—who am I kidding? I’m in love and know I’m completely lost to her.

“Ben,” she coos into my ear. “Happy Valentine’s Day, baby.” She smiles up at me. It’s broad and infectious. Something so little, she called me baby. I’ve called her that enough times, but Brontë, my little beauty, she’s never done that before. Hell, I’m not sure she’s even aware she said it or what that little, precious word will mean for the rest of my life. But here we are.

Maybe I should have waited, let her wake up a little, but I’m too selfish, wanting to have my hands on her again. I want to give her the day she’s already given me. Perfect.

“Can I touch you?” I ask. She goes completely still. “Don’t. Don’t do that. You can trust me. Nothing more than last night, okay?”

She’s so small beneath me, shrinking in on herself. Still, she nods and whispers, “Yes.” I lean down kissing the hollow of her throat.

“Your clothes,” I tell her, and move to that glistening collarbone, “will stay on.” She nods again. And then she moves, just the slightest adjustment of her hips grinding against where I’m most vulnerable until I forget my mind. Struck dumb. My words aren’t anywhere in the room. I can’t find my words until she nods a third time with more confidence. “Close your eyes.” She does as I ask without question. “I don’t want you to think, just feel. Just feel, okay, babe?”

My hands move in opposite directions. And so far she’s done everything I’ve asked. One of my hands slips underneath my shirt she’s wearing. The Pac-Man that will be framed for posterity after she’s done with it. My hand slips under that shirt, gliding up her stomach until reaching her sumptuous breasts, cupping them while smoothing my thumb across the hardened tip, then rolling it between my thumb and forefinger. My other hand slips down the pajama pants between her underwear and soft, pliant flesh. There’s an immediate reaction to my touch, her pulse quickening, breath hitching. I want more. I want to give her more. Everything my fingers are capable of.

So I do, give her more. Showing her again and again, finding her center, I use the ridge of my thumbnail. Rubbing. Tracing. Slow, magnificent circles. She feels so good, it’s all I can do not to lose it right now. But right now isn’t about me but about how good I can make her feel.

“You’re ready,” I whisper, pushing one finger inside her wetness, still tracing her core with my thumbnail.

Elle bites down on her lip to stifle back a moan. “No thinking, Brontë. Just feel it.” She smiles, releasing a tiny noise. I know she thinks I’m reading her mind, but her tells are practically transparent. No matter how many sexual encounters I’ve had, nothing has ever been as good, as important, or feeling as damn wonderful as she does. When I feel like she’s ready, I push a second finger inside and she responds to the touch with even greater appreciation, rocking slowly against my hand to some unheard music, creating our own soundtrack.

“That’s it, baby. That’s it. Ride my hand. Use it.” And she listens, rocking faster and faster bringing words to our music. She cries out. She’s thanking me. She’s thanking God for bringing me to her. Her reactions are the most beautiful, sensual noises I’ve ever heard. As she cries out her thank yous, my movements increase. “Elle, my Elle.” She rocks the hardest rock yet while I thrust upward. My other hand has slid, holding her at the small of her back. “Come on, let yourself go.”

“My head—it’s spinning.” Holy shit! I’ve never seen anything like her before. Or maybe I have but just never paid enough attention, because deep down, it didn’t matter before her. I’m intoxicated. “The building…
pressure
.”

“Come on. Let go.” I coax her, feeling her tensing around my fingers like a spring coiled too tightly, compacting and compacting. Her hands shoot up, clutching her head. “Let it go,” I breathe again. And finally she does. She snaps apart, a million tiny shards of Elle Dinninger spilling down over my hand.

A rush of air escapes her, and the sounds—fucking sexy as hell. I know this woman. I know she has more in her. So I keep her rocking. She’s broken apart but I keep her rocking until those million pieces congeal back into a solid mass, only to have her melt around me again.

The moaning and panting quickly turns to laughing. Because I know with her, it’s either laugh or cry, and she would never want to be one of those post orgasm crier girls. Although it wouldn’t have bothered me. I told her once, her reactions are beautiful, and I never want them hidden from me.

With the urgency gone, I lean forward, kissing the tip of her nose, brushing the back of my hand down her cheek.

“Your eyes,” she says to me. “They sparkle bright even without any extra light.” The blush spreads over her sex-glistening skin and she hugs me. She hugs me like she never wants to let go. I never want her to. “Thank you,” she then says again. She’s thanking me for letting me touch her? I never imagined the affect fingering a woman could have on me. But even as I think about it, I know what we’ve just done is so much more. She’s letting me in, really letting me in. Our level of intimacy, I’ve never shared with anyone else in my life. “And you didn’t ask me to take my clothes off.”

“No, baby. Not if you’re not ready. We have all the time in the world for that. Pretty soon you’ll be strutting around the house buck-ass naked and I’ll have to beg you to put on a robe when company shows up.” She laughs, and it’s the exact laugh I was hoping for.
God, Elle—you are
so unexpected
. I sink back into the mattress, fluffing the pillow under my head. She folds her hands on my chest, resting her chin on her hands so I can stare into her eyes unencumbered. “I love yo—your enthusiasm.” I should have just told her. But no, I chicken out. And since there’s no coming back from I love your enthusiasm, I have no choice but to pretend I meant exactly that, gleaning a last round of kisses on each cheek, her chin, nose, jaw, and forehead before collapsing back on the pillow again. “Man, Brontë, you really have ruined me.”

“Apologies. For that and for being so loud. I just didn’t expect. Well, I just didn’t expect any of it.”

“I welcome being ruined by you. I especially loved when you thanked me.” And she does me in with her smile, it radiates from ear to ear, enveloping the entire room in her warmth.

We stay lying silent, basking in the afterglow of the most perfect encounter I could have hoped for from my sweet, shy, and sexy as sin girlfriend. Finally, after about ten minutes she says to me, “You know, it’s no wonder so many women want you if this is what you’re capable of with just your fingers.”

“Sorry to spoil the myth, but that’s all on you. It’s only you, Brontë. You bring it out of me.”

For some reason, because I know she doesn’t mean anything by it, but knowing she’s thinking about me with those other girls sours my stomach. I don’t want to think about those other girls. There were no other girls as far as I’m concerned. And I sure as hell don’t want to think about her with some other man, especially not that piece of shit point guard. Too stupid to know what he had when he had it. I know he didn’t have her heart, but he didn’t deserve her body. The two of them together, the way she won’t let me yet. That’s all I can see. But I have to get those images out of my head.

“I’m going to shower.” And I shove up off the bed. When I’m at the bathroom door I turn to her. “I’d love it if you’d come.”

“Already did,” she says back with absolute confidence. That’s my girl.

“Keep talking and we’re going to have to get you a new T-shirt.”

“Go take your shower.” She laughs.