If I Stay (3 page)

With his whole body against mine, our heat blocking out any wisp of cold air, I moaned into his hair and he responded with harder bites. He could bruise me all he wanted, I didn't care. In that small piece of perfection, I only wanted him.

“I've never done this before,” he whispered, his mouth still hovering over the nape of my neck, his breath heavy. I was unabashedly intoxicated. “Gemma. Gemma with the dark red hair and quiet disposition. Gemma with the brown eyes that could melt even the most restless of searching souls.”

God, please keep talking. Please talk forever. Please take me away and make me yours and lock me away in a closet, for all I care.

Alright, maybe to not such an extreme. But still, those words.

I looked up at him, and he looked down at me, and we both smiled as he dropped me to my feet and our bodies fell together in silent, electric friction. I could feel him hard against my stomach as he stayed close, our bodies fully clothed and yet totally naked. My mind could already imagine it, and the image was glorious. So glorious, that when I felt my phone vibrate from its snug little spot in my back pocket, I was mildly frustrated.

“Gemma?” Brandon was clearly even more hammered than his pre-Edward-Cullen remark. “Gemma, I just wanted to say that I love you.”

“I love you too, Brandon.”

Ben laughed a little under his breath, and I couldn't help but suppress a laugh. Which sorely failed.

“No, but like, I'm totally serious. We don't say it enough. We don't say it nearly enough.”

“Alright, Brandon.”

“And it's not the alcohol, Gems. You best believe it.” He slurred, pausing for a solid second between each word. I laughed again, and before I was ready to hang up, he added: “I made a friend, so don't worry about me being lonely or anything. Anyway, are you spending the night with that poetic piece of man candy or what? I should add that the only answer should be a resounding YES.”

I covered my mouth, laughing at Brandon's sheer audacity. With a slow-knowing smile, Ben took the phone from my hands, and I could practically envision the look of terror and total delight on Brandon's inebriated face as he said:

“She's tied up, I'm afraid. But don't worry, I'll talk good care of her.”

He snapped the phone shut, tossing it into my clumsy hands. I was glad to have caught it.

“I've never been this forward with a woman before tonight,” Ben said slowly, carefully. “But Gemma, I would be lying if I said that I didn't want you in my bed right now. We can take it slow. We can simply talk. You don't need to undress or even have sex with me, if you'd rather not...”

He said it. He said sex.

“...but please,” he finished. “Please say you'll spend the night with me.”

Silence followed, stretching and accompanied only by the soft sound of the streets and wind as it shook the bare branches, sending dustings of snow like glitter through the air. We simply stared at each other for what seemed like hours, our cheeks flushed from the cold, the passion, the touch of skin on skin. My heart rattled in my chest, my lips trembling.

“Okay,” I said, barely a whisper. “Yes. Yes, I will.”

Ben looked nervous, of all things, as we walked from the bar to the hotel that was only few skips away. It was a place called
L'Hotel D'Amour
, which I found only slightly ironic. It was also conveniently located right across the street from the bar. I couldn't help but wonder.

“You're staying at a hotel?” I asked as we slipped into the entrance. “Did you plan on bringing someone back here tonight?”

A slight strain in Ben's jaw ensued, his hands fumbling for the card-key in his wallet. Stopping for a moment, his hand on my shoulder, he leaned in and ran a cool fingertip against my lips.

“I didn't actually intend on even staying after the show,” was his reply. “But, to answer your understandably understandable question regarding the hotel accommodations, my house is currently undergoing some slight renovations. Walls painted, new hardwood floors. I'm quite excited, actually.”

“Have you always lived in Chicago?” I asked as he guided me, hand in mine, down a narrow hallway lined with crimson-colored doors. The walls were splattered with contemporary-style paintings. Obscure faces and vases of brightly colored flowers. “Or did you just move here?”

We stopped at the door, and he gave me a small shrug.

“Born and raised,” he said, pausing and pressing his lips together almost hesitantly. “But I'm relocating from what was a very shitty apartment into some new, much nicer arrangements.”

He handed me the key, his smile wide and boyish.

“This is fun,” he said. “Just slide it in, and it makes a neat clicking sound. You, Gemma, can do the honors.”

As if I would be amused by something so dumb. Which, actually, I totally was. I grabbed the key, sliding it into the slot and watching as the red arrows on the lock lit up, the door clicking open like something magic.

Grinning like a fool, Ben pushed open the heavy red door, and I'm not sure why I did this, but I stopped myself. Waiting a few moments to figure out, really figure out, if this is what I wanted.

Then he kissed me, slow and sweet, his lips hot even though the air outside was so frigid. Even though my body was still chilled by the nipping frost. His mouth on mine was like a straight shot of heroin into my bloodstream, and any reservations I could have ever had were instantly ripped away. Fragmented, turned into dust. Lost in oblivion.

Without a second thought, I followed him inside.

THREE

It must have started raining one of those cold rains that occasionally comes in the winter, because when I stepped inside and Ben closed the door behind me, I could see that the windows – stretching from floor to ceiling – were covered in little beads of water. The light from the streets and passing cars and bar signs all bright and blending together, like the windows themselves were some kind of painting. I shivered a little, and Ben took my purse, setting it down on the counter.

“I'll get you something to drink,” he said quietly, waiting a few seconds before actually disappearing into the kitchen. The kitchen, to my surprise, that was entirely separate from the rest of the hotel room. And not sure what I was entirely expecting, whether it was one of those terribly done-up rooms with peeling wallpaper, a lumpy bed and one of those awkwardly placed corner-chairs that nobody ever sits on. Maybe a desk or mini-fridge.  But this, this wasn't just a hotel room. It was a suite. And compared to everything I'd ever experienced during my few times staying in hotel accommodations, or compared to my horrible excuse for a bedroom, this was absolutely astounding.

I walked a few steps down the short hallway, looking around the living room that was furnished with a clean, white sectional-style sofa, a glass coffee table, and an enormous flat-screen television. Behind the living room, up several steps, was an open bedroom which I could see had been freshly fixed up. Everything was white linen, even the gauze drapes that hung from the four heavy espresso-wooden bed posts. Gold and red throw pillows, and more paintings of strange faces and fruit and flora. I reached out and touched this giant bronze statue of Siddhartha, turning only when I felt Ben's hand on my shoulder. He handed me my drink.

“I don't think I could handle any more of the hard stuff,” I mumbled, flushing. Ben smiled something genuine.

“I figured as much,” he said. “It's just Coke, don't worry.”

The ice clinked against the glass, a pleasant sound. The two of us glanced out the window, at the rain that was still streaming down in a race of sorts, the world outside becoming more and more skewed. But I enjoyed it. The simple sound of rainfall.

This is it
. I felt confident as he took me by the hand, and together we seated ourselves on the sectional.
Just go for it. What is there to lose?

I took a small sip of my Coke, wondering as I went to set it aside if there was some rule against setting a drink down on glass without a coaster. But Ben didn't seem to mind. His eyes didn't move an inch from my body.

“Rainer Maria Rilke wrote about the rain,” he said timidly, his voice low. His eyes suddenly lifted towards the windows. “
The walls, with their ancient portraits, glide away from us. As though they weren't supposed to hear what we are saying.
”

His sights fixed on mine again, his drink untouched as he set it down on the table. My heart started quickening, and I had to watch my breath for fear of giving everything away at once.

“Your poem tonight,” I said, following him with my eyes as he stood, removing his jacket and button-down with quick-working fingers. Beneath he wore an undershirt that was so gossamer I could see with perfect clarity the warm-colored skin just below the thin layer of fabric. Was he doing this on purpose? “It really was beautiful. Sad, but still beautiful.”

“Well, it's good to find some sort of beauty amidst all of this worldly suffering, yes?”

He sat down next to me again, his hands folded on his lap. Something about his wrists sent a strange stirring sensation deep within me, and the way he stretched his fingers, clutching his knees as if tense. He leaned forward, closer to me, but not too close. I wanted so badly to reach out and touch him, but I held back as he added, his voice still soft, like we needed to keep our words a secret: “I like to think that most of the bad things we face have some sort of purpose. Slightly idealistic, perhaps. But I am a man who believes in believing, Gemma.”

I nodded, shifting just a few inches closer.

“I would love to read more of your work, if you have anything on you.”

He raised his eyebrows, surprised. Slowly, he turned and motioned to a suitcase that rested by the foot of his bed.

“You're welcome to fetch the suitcase if you'd like. I have some other works that you certainly might enjoy.”

I couldn't tell if he was playing with me. If walking up the steps to grab the suitcase was actually a ploy, a game so that he could get me as close to his bed as possible. And then what?

You know exactly what
. My brain was buzzing. And as he watched me, like a cat following a mouse with perfect precision, not missing even the smallest step, I walked up the steps and into the bedroom, kneeling down and picking up the suitcase. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I balanced it on my knees, looking up at him with the sliest grin I could muster.

“Will you help me?” I asked him. “Open this, I mean.”

I hoped he could catch the hint, and without missing a beat he stood again, a grin immediately pulling at this mouth. He took the drinks, and even at our short distance he felt too far away. When he said:
just a moment
and disappeared into the kitchen, my insides partially crumbled.

And then it hit me, a sudden, gushing rush of realization: I was going to have sex with this man. I was going to see him naked. He was going to be...
inside
me. What if I was terrible? What if this totally failed? What if I couldn't orgasm? Or worse, what if he couldn't get off?

My face grew hot, too hot, and with the suitcase still in my arms, I dove into the connected bathroom and locked the door behind me. The bathroom that was equally as lavish as the rest of the suite, with black granite counter-tops and a mirror that stretched for miles. Leaning over the sink, I splashed some cold water on my face, staring down my reflection in hopes of convincing myself to grow a pair, get out there, and have sweet, incredible sex with this beautiful, poetic man who could likely talk the panties off of any girl. And yet here I was. It was me.

I jumped at the sound of a knock on the door, suddenly regarding the suitcase that rested on the tiled floors. Oh, Jesus. I was locked in the bathroom with Ben's poems. Like that wasn't totally weird.

“Gemma?” Ben asked. “Are you alright?”

Grabbing the suitcase, I slowly opened the door, almost feeling like a punished child that didn't want to meet the eyes of their parent. Ben glanced down at the suitcase in my arms, his eyebrows raised.

“Are you trying to steal my work?” he asked. I shook my head.

“I'm just...” I dropped the suitcase gently on the floor, sliding it against the wall with my foot as his eyes followed. “I'm just not feeling as brave as I was back at the bar.”

Our drinks were refreshed, sitting on the nightstand. I welcomed a few sips of the sweet, carbonated drink before sitting down at the edge of the bed, looking over at Ben who still stood, pensive, looking just slightly uncertain. I wondered if he was just going to call this entire thing off, and if I would be traveling home solo tonight. Catching taxis is always fun in the freezing winter rain.

“I could read you a poem...” he started, then stopped, pausing again. “Of, if you'd rather, I could attempt my best at free-versing something original.”

“About what?” I asked.

He smiled, and I think what hit the most was that there was nothing ulterior to the way his mouth stretched. It was totally genuine.

“About you,” he answered.

I sat back, making sure to cross my legs when I remembered that yes, I was still wearing a skirt. Ben pressed his lips together, the dim lighting from the hanging lamps dancing over his face like something delicate.

“
Lady with jewels hanging from her name, her eyes like two dark arrows. Her quiet disposition, it dances in shadows. Her smile the most shrouded enigma
.”

He stopped again, and for the first time, I caught a hint of nervousness in the very last word: enigma.

“
I wonder, does she carry her beauty like a weight?
” he continued.
“
Do other men run and fall at her feet? As surely I would, as any man should. For the lady with jewels that hang from her name
.”

Our eyes met in silence for a very long time, and I don't think I had ever been that speechless before. But Ben, as I could only assume any writer would, met my prolonged lack of response with a spout of lines.

“I've never done that before,” he muttered. “So I'm sorry if it was rather shaky. I typically go through an extensive revision process before reading anything out loud, and...”

I stopped him, pressing my finger to his lips as he was suddenly next to me, seated beside me, looking like a total nervous wreck.

“It was perfect,” I told him, taking a slow, deep breath. “It was beyond perfect. I am very, very moved.”

He softened, his eyes widening as my fingers tickled against the top of his hand like a spider. His lips parted, he whispered:

“You have somehow managed to totally throw me off my game, Miss Gemma. What are you doing to me right now?”

Now
. My chest was pounding, my head suddenly hit with a scent of strange cologne that I hadn't caught before. A smell that had likely been masked by the smoke and sweat from the bar. From the layers he wore. But now, his chest barely covered, it sent every single nerve-ending standing. Musky, wooded, dark and utterly fantastic.
Don't waste another second.

Gathering every ounce of courage, I slid onto his lap, wrapping my arms around the curve of his neck and pulling him close. He responded immediately with the lowest of growls, his hands snaking around to press me against him. Already he was aroused, and I could feel it against the soft denim of his jeans. My small skirt now leaving me all the more vulnerable.

“God,” he murmured, running his hand down my jaw line. I kissed him, hard and lascivious and with every fiber of my being. My lips hurt, my body craving the next fix of his mouth anywhere and everywhere. I felt his tongue move against mine like a strange and stirring dance, our lips frenzied and tasting like salt from what may or may not have been just a little bit of blood. My hands found their way beneath the fabric of his barely-there shirt, and when I finally pulled away, I was breathless.

When Ben responded by pulling the cloth over his head and tossing it on the floor, there simply was no air. Every inch of his long, defined body was flawless. His gaze like two black marbles. Dark, like something, someone out of those grim storybooks that you don't want to get yourself tied into.

Despite this, my brain was clouded. He could be a vampire, a monster, he could be the Dark One himself. Hiding under the visage of the seamlessly spoken man whose way with words and fingertips left me nearly collapsing at his feet.

“You are something else.”

His murmur was just as wicked.

Grabbing me by the arms, he pinned me down on my back, his fingers running through my hair as his mouth trailed with small, delicious bites down the soft flesh of my neck. On places, curves, shadowed spots shielded by skin and bone that hadn't been touched in so long. Everything was awakening on those white sheets, and I couldn't savor it long enough. Selfish, so selfish. I just wanted more. Every time I moaned his hands tightened, and I could feel him trembling with what I knew was a brooding release. Hiding, waiting. His hands worked their way down my torso, stopping just briefly to admire with his fingertips the way my hip-bones jutted out. Something I hated, and had often left me remarkably self-conscious. But he only stared, fascinated and flushed, pulling my shirt down to my waist, his palms finally resting on my stomach. When he reached my skirt, his eyes merged with mine. How perfect it was then that his limbs were so long. It seemed that his towering height was good for something.

“Please,” I begged. This felt too good. It was like something almost undeserved, sweeter than any dessert and finer than anything I'd ever encountered. Flashing back for only a moment, and although it was blurred, the times I'd had with Toby seemed lukewarm in comparison to this. Like comparing a burning bonfire to a flickering candle. The simplest touch left me gasping, writhing with my hands in his hair.

Was this what it felt like to lose yourself?

Ben seemed entranced, overtaken by what likely flooded through his veins in a torrent of heat and testosterone. He lowered his lips to mine, and as his free hand unclasping the front of my bra, he kissed me tenderly.  Arching my back, he followed with a harder kiss, his tongue skimming down my neck as one hand cupped my breast. They swelled, my body responding in such a surge of hormones that could have so easily thrust me into my own personal Nirvana.

And then he stopped. His eyes skimming over my frame, his breath ragged. The expression on his face reading a mix of awe and demonic delight.

Pulling my skirt down to my feet, his fingers brushing over the pale skin of my inner thighs, he kissed his way down my legs in a frenzied flourish.

“Please what?” he asked, his tone deadly quiet. “I want to hear you say my name.”

“Ben,” I yelped as his fingers pressed against the lace of my panties, slowly sneaking underneath. His touch sent a torrent of quivers throughout my entire body, and I could only gasp, pushing myself against him. “Please, Ben. Oh God, please.”