“For now,” I pant, grabbing the soreness between my legs. “Ass later?” I ask, pulling one arm across my chest to stretch it, and then the other.
“Heaven, I tell you,” Ben says, leaning over to kiss my lips. When he pulls away he slides down to kiss my wet pussy. “Heal up, kitten. I’ll see you soon.” Even through the sore pain, a tingle of pleasure still comes at his lapping tongue. How is that even possible?
“Let’s shower,” Ben says, hopping up. My heart is pounding out a staccato of everything I’m feeling in this moment.
He lets me have all the hot water and finishes me off for the millionth time with his fingers.
“We’re never leaving this house,” I murmur.
“Bowling,” he says.
It sounds more like a threat than anything else.
++++
The beer tastes gross and the food has more calories than Grandma’s pound cake, but I’m with Ben, so nothing else matters. I throw a spare and dance a little even though I feel like I’ve been ridden hard and hung up wet. We can’t get enough of each other. That’s saying something because we spent every single day together the summer when we turned eleven. We called it the summer challenge. I went on his family vacation and he came on mine. Our parents took bets on how long it would be until we’d tire of each other. We never did, and they all lost.
Now that we’re adults it’s a bit of the case of the summer challenge, except years of pent-up sexual frustration equals some seriously mind-blowing orgasms.
“That was lucky. You’re cheating, though, so if you win today it’s because you wore that skirt. I can’t focus.” Ben slides his fingers across the short hem of my skirt and takes them away quickly, teasing both him and me.
“Listen, I can remember multiple times in our past when I wore things far more provocative than this skirt and you won. Weren’t you paying attention back then?”
He nods, drying his hands on top of the hand dryer. “I’m always paying attention. I hadn’t tasted your pussy minutes before throwing balls down the lane, though. That makes a difference. I think you’re laced with illegal drugs.”
I raise one brow. “Better hope they don’t pop on your next drug screen.” Laughing, I hug him around the waist. “Or maybe they should show up and then you’ll be dishonorably discharged for swallowing too much Harper Rosehall.”
His chuckle reverberates through my body—buzzing, eliciting the new electric current that connects us. “In all seriousness, though. I love you, Harper Jean.” He squeezes me. Just once. “Everything about this is right. Breathing is easier. Living makes sense. I love you more than anything else and I can finally say it out loud.” He taps some guy on the shoulder as he gets up to bowl on the lane next to us.
“Sir, excuse me. I need you to know that I love this woman. I love her,” he says again, repeating himself just to make me squirm with embarrassment. Ben releases me, throws his fists up to the ceiling and screams, “I’m in love with Harper Jean!”
The guy looks at him funny, flicks his gaze to me wearing a confused smirk, and points at his ball waiting for him on the rack.
I’m too smitten to be angry at Ben’s insane outburst. Grabbing me again, he pulls me against his chest. “I love you,” he whispers, confirming I understand the severity of his words. While we’ve said I love you to each other so many times in our past, this time it means something more. It means the love we spent years cultivating through friendship finally gets the opportunity to break through and live on its own. Gazing at his face, so different, yet exactly the same, I finally reply, “I love you, too.”
We’re both smiling wide, stupid lovers’ glee written all over our faces. “Enough to throw gutter balls for the rest of the game?” Ben whispers, tucking my hair behind my ear.
I shake my head. “Probably enough to throw gutter balls for the rest of my life,” I respond.
“Damn,” Ben says, sliding his hands down to cup my ass. “I like your enthusiasm.” His dick hardens against me.
“The prospect of winning gives you a boner. There’s something wrong with you,” I hiss into his ear, looking to our side to see if anyone is watching us.
“You make my dick hard,” he says, leaning close to whisper in my ear.
I fidget, trying to break free from our salty, completely inappropriate, public embrace. Ben doesn’t let me. He kisses me on my neck, my chin, and then trails his soft lips to my mouth. His eyes fall closed as he kisses me, slowly, deliberately. Someone somewhere in the bowling alley celebrates a strike, and the sound of pins being pelted by heavy balls cascades around us. I melt a little, turning to a fine putty in the safety of his strong, familiar arms. I’ll never worry if someone will be there to catch me, or contemplate the way his mind works.
I lick the edge of his lip as I pull away from the kiss. “I can’t feel anything except everything,” Ben admits.
“Feeling everything is a gift.”
He rubs his lips together, tasting me. “It’s also a curse. I can never go back from here. It’s an impossibility.” His gaze skirts from the bottom of my face up to the top and back down again. “You’re my blind spot, Harper. I can’t see around you.”
There has to be some negative connotation associated with being a blind spot, but Ben says it in a way that forces me to realize the magnitude of his feelings. I decide on the truth as my retort. “If what you’re trying to explain is that I’m your handicap, then I have the advantage. I can cause darkness whenever I want?”
He shakes his head, a small grin playing on his lips. “You blind with light.”
He loves with his whole heart. A fact I can’t fault because I do the same. It’s the first time he’s also wearing it on his sleeve. “It’s your turn,” I say. How do I respond to that? There’s no follow-up appropriate enough, strong enough.
