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Don’t be a baby, Polly.
Bennett kisses my forehead and moves past me to the hallway.
The quiet is awkward and unsettling, compounding the anxiety I’m already battling.
Adam Reiner steps forward, not even that close to me, to reach for something on the countertop beside me.
“Hey.” A smoky voice. Male. Indistinguishable. “Need some help?”
Hands on my waist, holding me still. A punishing grip.
“You look just like your mom.”
My stomach rolls, sickness threatening. I nearly jump out of my skin, flinching back and away from him, knocking my hip hard into one of the elaborate drawer handles. A hiss of pain explodes from my lips, skin burning so hot I’m sure I must be on fire.
Seven whines, pushing past Adam Reiner’s leg to get to me.
“Are you all right?”
He isn’t talking about my hip. That’s obvious from the worried furrow of his brow, the tip of his chin and hunch of his body—the same tactic I’ve seen Bennett use before, attempting to shrink his massive frame.
“Yeah—I’m—”
God, am I about to cry? My voice is tight and scratchy. It feels like speaking through swallowed shards of glass.
Adam looks me over again, gaze assessing—seeing too much, too easily.
“Are you—”
“Ready?” Bennett calls, stepping back into the room with a few hangers of thicker winter coats tossed over his shoulder. I nod and nearly sprint toward him.
It’s only when his arm is around me, his lips are to my hair, that I feel completely safe again.
• • •
We make it back to his place late, Seven quietly trailing us as we step into the pitch-black living room. I’ve calmed down, the rush of adrenaline and embarrassment both having faded out. In their place is a calm I only tend to feel in Bennett’s strong presence.
And Seven’s.
“My roommates are out for the night—since we don’t have a game until Sunday evening. If you want to stay here.”
I’ve never met his roommates or his friends. I don’t even know their names; we never talk about them. Sometimes I think it’s because Bennett’s realized I don’t have any friends myself.
It’s not strange to me, like it might be to others. I’m used to being a secret; good at keeping them, too. Especially when it’s something I want.
And I want Bennett Reiner.
The stereo in his room plays “You’re the Only Good Thing in My Life” by Cigarettes After Sex—a band whose lyrics I used as a poem once in one of our letters to each other. The beat is slow, sensual. So is Bennett. His body is so large and warm, sturdy and unshakable—the same way he is to me.
He means so much to me—I think I’m falling in love with him, and he can barely admit to liking me. The cacophony of the self-conscious thoughts that plague me only ratchets up higher.
I reach for him, anxiety and excitement plaguing every sense until my heartbeat is rushing through my ears. Sinking to my knees between his massive, slightly spread thighs, I tuck my hair back over my shoulders and pull at his sweatpants.
“What—”
“I want to do something for you,” I breathe, skin flushed and warm beneath his intense gaze. “Please . . .”
He swallows visibly, his throat working heavily, but he does nod.
