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Ugh.
He must think I’m crazy. Maybe I am.
“Come on.” Ben’s gruff voice is suddenly at my ear. His hand, wide and warm across my back, smoothly propels me past the ropes and toward the closed door at the end of the hallway.
“Wait, maybe we shouldn’t.” And he can read that any way he wants. Because of the ropes, or because being alone together right now might not be the best idea.
He opens the door with an easy smile. “But we are.”
I step into a cluttered space lit only by the hallway behind us and two glass brick windows that glow with the light from the street beyond but obscure any view. From the looks of the boxes, crates of glassware, and miscellaneous bar and sound equipment in the center, the room is mostly storage.
We definitely shouldn’t be here.
The door closes, muting the music we were losing ourselves in and dimming the space even more.
Ben walks past me, catching my hand as he navigates to an open spot near the first window.
Propping a shoulder against the bricks, he stares. “We were dancing. That’s all.”
Ha. “You know that’s not all.”
The fact that he called it out says he knows. He just doesn’t want to admit it.
I cough out a laugh. “The only thing between me and getting pregnant were two layers of denim.” And my birth control.
Ben blinks. Opens his mouth. Closes it.
Okay, maybe that was a little much. “That came out wrong.”
Nod. “I want to tell you it was no big deal. Explain why it wasn’t. I do. But all I can think is, if what you said is true, you aren’t wearing panties. And, fuck it.” His mouth splits into a wide grin. “My brain pretty much stopped working there.”
I blink. And then, yeah, fuck it. Smiling myself, I relax into the wall, my body mirroring his larger one.
Then, “Wait.” My eyes narrow as I do some clothing math. “Does that mean…?”
Hello, sexy dimple.
He leans closer, whispering loudly enough to be heard over the music from the main room. “Commando.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. Just like I can’t help?—
“Hey, eyes up here, Elliot.”
“I’m trying!” I really am.
The rounded shoulder he isn’t leaning on lifts in a half-shrug. “Yeah, I get it. The need to verify the status of your lace thong is weighing heavy on me.”
“Thong?” Of course that’s what he’s thinking.
He bites his bottom lip, blatantly staring at the front of my jeans. “Slayers red? Help a friend out and show me?”
“You are ridiculous.” But damn it, just knowing he’s thinking about my panties has them dampening as heat coils through my center. Or maybe it started with the dancing.
Which is why we’re here.
“Boomer—” I cut off when he growls at the ceiling.
“Hate it when you call me that.”
