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He gives me a gentle nod. “To good times, good people, and happiness,” he agrees, then taps my glass with his own.
We both drink.
I have felt like Prince Trevor all damned day, pampered until I’m putty, thanks to this man.
But now, I feel like a King.
The empty glasses touch the blanket, and then we are looking into one another’s eyes with the breeze blowing about us. Neither of us move, watching one another as the tiniest bit of light slowly seeps from the sky like a dark gold ink bleeding from a canvas. His eyes sparkle in the light of the four braziers encircling us.
I take my cue. Slowly, I lean into him for a kiss.
His hand grips my shoulder powerfully, stopping me.
I lift an eyebrow, confused. The subtlest of smiles teases the corner of his mouth, and then he gently pushes me back onto the blanket, laying me down. He straddles my waist, then slowly starts to unbutton his shirt—that sleek grey thing that grips his every rippling muscle. When the buttons are freed, he peels it off, and the wind takes it.
My heart pounds, watching his shirtless torso as it glows in the dancing light from the braziers. The last tendril of sunlight burning on the horizon behind him ignites his silhouette in a way that makes him look like a demigod. It’s almost like he reads my mind, knowing how utterly beautiful he looks right now, since he starts taking his sweet time to unbutton his pants.
Somewhere between the button and the zipper, I experience a very untimely jolt of fear.
Is it about to happen? Is it really about to happen?
I realize he’s stopped moving, studying me in my apparent panic. “Something wrong?” he asks, concerned.
“No, no,” I assure him too quickly. “I’m fine.”
There’s a plate containing a hill of strawberries at my side, bright red and plump, accompanied by a small bowl of dipping chocolate. I’m not sure why my eye catches sight of them. I think suddenly I’m nervous and swallowing in my environment.
The waves of the Caribbean Sea still crash beyond us.
The breeze gently blows, tossing the strands of Ben’s hair.
Am I nervous? Am I really, actually nervous? Maybe I should eat a strawberry. Maybe we both should, even though we just devoured a small cake together.
“You look beautiful,” he volunteers suddenly.
I’m yanked from my thoughts. “Th-Thank you.”
He considers me for a moment, then lowers onto the blanket next to me, abandoning the task of taking off his pants. My eyes drift to them, which he’s left unbuttoned and half-unzipped, as he lies on his side with his head propped up by a palm and his elbow digging into the blanket. He can’t possibly know how sexy he looks right now, shirtless with his pants halfway open giving me a peek of his shiny blue boxer-briefs.
“Why’d you stop?” I ask him, forcing myself to sound brave despite my racing heart. “I was enjoying the show.”
“Oh, there’s plenty more show where that came from.” Ben’s face glows when he smiles at me, his eyes twinkling in the flames that are quickly becoming our only source of light. “What’s the rush? We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want. You’re the birthday boy. You’re in charge.”
I feel all the moisture escaping my throat. Cotton fills my mouth as I try to form the right words. “It’s just … I mean … I want to do something. I want to do everything,” I amend with a nervous chuckle. “I’m really … really turned on by you. I think that much is obvious. Someone would have to be blind not to be.” I reconsider. “But even that’s not true. A blind man would hear your kindness and your character and your … your heart. And if that man were deaf as well, then he’d …” I meet Ben’s eyes, worried I’m rambling. He’s perfectly attentive, listening. “Then he’d feel your care.”
“He’d feel my care?”
“The way you touch me … the way you make me feel safe and present and heard.”
“Yeah?” He lifts his free hand to my hair, brushing the short, messy bangs off my forehead. “Like this?”
“Like that.”
Ben hooks a finger into the top of my shirt, somehow wiggling the first button free. My breathing deepens. Then the second button is freed, followed by the third, then the fourth, and then the last few.
He meets my eyes again. “Like … this?”
“Yes.”
He’s doing all of this one handed. It’s so sexy, how little effort he takes in pulling me right apart. It’s almost lazy, the way he now brings his hand to my sleeves, gently tugging them down my arms until I, like him, am freed from my shirt.
“Like that?” he continues. “Do you … feel my care?”
“I feel it.”
His eyes finally pull away from mine as they begin to explore my chest hungrily. He even licks his lips, but in the most natural, incidental way, like he doesn’t even notice he’s licked them. There isn’t a single bone of performance in him, or demonstrativeness, or fakeness. He isn’t acting or playing a role right now; he’s just Ben, a man with a need, like me, and his eyes are as curious as they are aware.
