Inside, it’s quiet. The fridge hums, trying to calm me down, but the only thing getting cooled is the egg salad I brought him. The good kind. With slutty little pickle chunks, because my man deserves sandwich triangles that understand foreplay.
I unload the lunch into the fridge, then set Mr. Wriggles on the counter with a note: He’s been asking about you. Worms get sad too.
There’s a dish in the sink. Just one. Which means either Benji wasn’t hungry or he was too tired or … Fuck. What if he didn’t feel good and didn’t tell me? What if he was trying not to worry me?
I wash it. Dry it. Put it away.
I should go. I should. I’m still wearing Jett’s stolen shirt like a bloodstained flag of emotional terrorism, and Benji deserves me at my full, terrifying power, not raw from earlier chaos. But my feet are already taking me to his bedroom like I’m the final girl in a horny slasher flick.
His room smells like him, like soap, warmth, and the kind of patience that makes people believe in gods. He’s sprawled out on his absurdly large bed, limbs akimbo, mouth slightly parted. Nude.
Nude.
The man sleeps like a Renaissance painting of fuckability and forgiveness. His cock is right there, relaxed and majestic, on break from rearranging my internal organs.
Do not molest the golden retriever while he sleeps. Even if he’s lying there cock-first like an open invitation to sin.
Do not molest the golden retriever while he sleeps.
Do not…
Okay, fine. I write a card. Because I’m a lady. A deranged, sex-starved lady who writes notes instead of mounting her boyfriend like a needy barn cat.
You are stunning when you sleep. And that cock?? That’s the kind of flaccid that inspires fanfiction and minor felonies. I’m not proud of what I’d do to it, but I’d do it twice. You’re so sexy it feels like a hate crime against my restraint. If Rhys hadn’t pulled the emergency brake with his whole “boundaries” kink, I would’ve ridden you like a goddamn panic attack.
But I didn’t. I’m not. I’m just standing here, writing you this note like a girl who respects “consent” and “sleep” and all those boring sexy limitations. I’m not even kissing you. But oh, I thought about it. I wanted to lean in and murmur pornographic poetry to your dick just to see if it’d twitch in its sleep. Would you wake up? Would you dream about me? Am I in your dreams right now?
You’re so full of sweetness and sex and softness, I don’t even know where to put it all. I love you. I packed your lunch.
P.S. If you wake up hard, that was my mind. If you come in your sleep, that was me astral projecting. You’re welcome.
I set the card gently on his nightstand, balanced on top of his watch.
I should leave. I should.
But I stand there instead, trying not to break in half from how good he is. From how kind he is. Who the fuck hurt thisman so bad he thinks I’m the best he can get? Why does he let me in like I’m not a walking catastrophe with a loyalty kink and a punch card for bad decisions?
I peel off Jett’s shirt. Strip all the way down, skin to sin, because if I’m gonna slither into heaven, I may as well do it naked.
And then I crawl into bed like a raccoon with tits and trauma, spooning the sweetest man alive with a mouthful of secrets and a cunt full of memories.
He stirs. Mumbles something soft. Pulls me against him with those sleep-drunk arms and kisses the top of my head like I won’t ruin him out of sheer, overzealous love.
And I let him.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Benji
It took me twenty minutes to convince myself I was awake.
That she was real.
Delilah. Curled into me, bare skin pressed to mine. Her cheek’s warm against my chest, her breath slow and steady, and I don’t know what I did right to deserve this. Her in my bed. My arms. She didn’t want to face the night alone, and she chose me.
Took another fifteen to convince myself to get up and not just lie there like a feral dog guarding a sacred treasure.
She whimpered when I moved.
