Outside the Lines (Rebel Hearts #1) (12 page)

I let out a satisfied breath and relax against Ben. I want to enjoy this moment, relish in the fact that I’m all tingly and warm and can still Ben’s big dick between my legs. I’m sure I’ll feel it in the morning too.
 

But of course, with me being me, I start thinking that something has to be said before this gets awkward. We’ll have to face the music sometime soon, and I have to pee so it’s not like I can pretend to be fall asleep.
 

Ben trails his fingers up my stomach and gently fondles my sensitive breasts. I shiver and tip my head toward him. He leans over and kisses me.
 

Could this be any more perfect? I’m convinced he’s the perfect lover.
 

“That was really nice,” I blurt. “I enjoyed it.” I’m not rating a video game. I squeeze my eyes closed.
Fuck, what is wrong with me?

“I’m glad you did,” he says. “I did too.”
 

I just nod and try to relax. I’m tensing at my own lack of social skills. Is after-sex talk even considered a social skill? I clamp my jaw shut, resisting the urge to ask him “now what?”

He runs his finger over the curve in my hip and presses his lips to my neck. He’s not acting like he wants to jump up and run home. That’s good, right? Another few minutes pass before he gets up and goes into the bathroom, grabbing just his boxers.
 

I’m overanalyzing everything and it hits me that I really want things to work with Ben. I want a second date. Then a third. And a fourth. I want to see where this can go. I like him, and I think soon I can really like him, given a few more dates and another (okay, more than one please) fucking awesome cooter clash like he’d just given me.
 

It also hits me that I’m not really sure what to do now. I’m far from being a virgin, but I haven’t had that many relationships. I lost my virginity the beginning of senior year in high school, dated that loser for a while then hit a dry spell until college, where I met, dated, and bedded an even bigger loser—but that’s another story. I swore off men for a while after that, not getting back into the game until after I turned twenty-one. Things were casual, and I had one good fuck buddy until he decided to grow a vagina and develop feelings for me.
 

Then I dated Mr. Foot Fucker. Yeah … no need to bring that up. But we had actually dated for a while before we hooked up, which, thinking back on it, was probably done on purpose. He made me have feelings for him, made me care
before
he asked to suck my toes while he beat himself off.
 

Because I would have grabbed the polka-dot stilettos he always wanted me to wear and booked it the fuck out of there if I didn’t care deeply for him.
 

And that brings me back to Ben.
 

Ben.
 

The cool, confident, sophisticated, sexy artist. I’m not romanticizing him, not at all. I didn’t know him very well yet, we’d only been on—hold the phone.
 

One date.
 

We’d gone on only one date. Not two. One. And we slept together. Did that make me a slut? Do I care if it does? (No, I don’t.) But what I do care about is what Ben thinks of me. I’m not easy. I don’t give it up to anyone who wines and dines me. There’s something about him, something that makes me unable to hold back any and all passion, something that makes me so comfortable to be around him even when I’m nervous.

And none of that makes sense.
 

What is he doing to me?

The toilet flushes and I hear water running. Ben’s coming out any second now. I run my hands through my hair, pushing it out of my face, and throw back the comforter, pulling down the sheets. I slip underneath, moving it up to cover my breasts. Not because I don’t want Ben to see, but because that’s what they do in movies.
 

It’s sexy, right?
 

Or maybe it’s just a sexy way to censor nipples?
 

(Fuck censorship, by the way.)

The bathroom door opens, and I know I have to be realistic. Ben can very well tell me he has to go, has work in the morning, blah, blah, blah, and I can’t blame him. I can’t get mad at him.
 

His eyes meet mine and his lips pull up in a small smile. He picks up the rest of his clothes and my heart sinks a bit. Yep, he’s leaving.
 

“Well,” I start. Should I thank him? No, that doesn’t feel like the right thing to say. Hope to do this again another time? Yeah, that might work. It’s the honest truth, anyway. He lazily folds his clothes together and tosses them on the chair next to my dresser. Then he’s climbing back into bed.
 

I’m in that bed.
 

I blink, heart skipping a beat as it rises back into place. He doesn’t get under the covers, but he lays down and drapes his arm around me, resting his head against my stomach, which in turn presses on my bladder and reminds me I have to pee. Stupid bodily functions ruining the moment. I run my fingers through his hair.
 

“My turn,” I say softly and try to be as graceful as possible when I get out of bed and walk into the bathroom. I’m still naked, completely naked, and I know he’s watching.
 

I pee, wash my hands, and debate on taking my makeup off now or later. I decide on later mostly because I’m lazy. I’ll actually end up falling asleep with it on, like usual. There is a short nightgown hanging on the back of the bathroom door. It barely covers my ass, and is outlined in lace.
 

But it’s dark green with the Green Lantern symbol on the chest. Oh well. I pull it on, noticing that my nipples are still hard and very visible through the thin fabric. That’s definitely not a bad thing, not right now.
 

I go back in the room and get in bed next to Ben.
 

“So,” he starts and reaches for me. “How about a glass of wine?”

CHAPTER EIGHT

I wake up around ten AM that next morning. I have a slight headache, thanks to the two bottles of wine Ben and I polished off last night. We stayed up way too late drinking and drunk racing each other in Mario Kart. I think it was nearing four in the morning when we has sex again on my living room floor then wobbled into my room and passed out in bed together, naked and sweaty, and cuddling until we drifted off into a booze and sex-induced blissful sleep.
 

My mouth is dry, I need to use the bathroom, and probably brush my teeth. I run my hands over my face, feeling little crusts of mascara on my cheeks. Thank God I woke up before Ben.
 

He’s still sleeping, breathing deep and steady, and he’s lying on his stomach, arm wrapped around a pillow. He’s sprawled out, hogging over half the bed, and has the blankets tangled around his legs like he tried to kick them off in his sleep. I admire his bare ass for a minute then quietly get out of bed and slink into the bathroom.
 

Turning on the shower, I brush most of the knots from my hair while waiting for the water to warm, then jump in, brushing my teeth while the shampoo rinses from my hair. I re-shave my armpits because those fuckers grow a full head of hair overnight, but skip my legs for the sake of saving time.
 

I towel dry my hair the best I can, rake my fingers through it, and decide that’s good enough. Ben is still sleeping when I get dressed and pad into the kitchen to stick a K-cup in the Keurig. While the water is heating up, I preheat the oven and grab a can of cinnamon rolls from the fridge. I peel back the label and put it on the counter, pressing a spoon to the seam. Before I can actually push down, I close my eyes and turn away, like I’m clipping the red wire of a homemade bomb with three seconds left until detonation.
 

I fucking hate opening cans of biscuits.
 

I stick them in the oven before it’s at the optimal temp, but that’ll help them cook faster, right? Breakfast now cooking, I get a cup of coffee and pick up my phone. I need to talk to Erin. Stat.
 

I sit at my little island counter and send her a text.
 

Ben and I hooked up after one date! HOLY SHIT! But seriously, WTF do I do now? He’s still sleeping in my bed.
 

 
I add creamer to my coffee, waiting for Erin’s reply. I’m not sure if she’s working today or not, but if she is she’s probably busy decorating a wedding cake. My phone buzzes a minute later with a response from her.
 

Make him breakfast in bed, suck his dick, and tell him he’s the best you’ve ever had. Then offer anal. Definitely anal.
 

I raise an eyebrow.
Hi, David,
I type back.
Is Erin around?

She’s at work,
he replies.
Left her phone at home. You really hooked up on the first date? Boo, you whore.

I smile and shake my head. He won’t admit
Mean Girls
is one of his favorite movies, yet he quotes it all the time.
 

Haha, thanks. Have Erin call me when she gets home, please,
I type. He responds with a thumbs up emoji and I exit out of my texts. I scroll through Facebook, not really paying attention to what I’m looking at, as I wait for the rolls to finish baking, or for Ben to wake up. Whichever happens first.
 

They end up happening at pretty much the same time. I open the oven when Ben walks into the kitchen.
 

“Smells good,” he says.
 

“Thanks,” I say and set the hot pan on the stove. “There’s coffee too, if you want some.”
 

Ben rubs his temples. “I think I need some.” He gets himself a cup and sits at the island. I frost the rolls before they’ve cooled and the cream cheese frosting melts down the sides just the way I like it. I dish two up and take a seat next to Ben.
 

“What are your plans the rest of today?” he asks and slices his cinnamon roll apart with his fork.
 

“Nothing really,” I say. I have nothing planned for the whole weekend other than gaming and working on my costume. “You?”

“Nothing really either,” he replies. “I have a work thing tonight.” He makes a face. “I told you I go to events a lot.”
 

“You say that like you don’t like them.”
 

“I do and I don’t,” he explains then takes a bite. Once he’s finished chewing, he continues. “It’s work. I like selling paintings, of course, and getting recognized for it, but it’s all fake smiles and bullshit small talk. I didn’t start painting so I could go to things like that.”
 

It’s an honest confession, and I feel like I can see the real Ben right there in front of me.
 

“Makes sense,” I say. “I don’t go to many black-tie events though, so wearing a pretty dress and sparkly jewelry seems fun.”
 

“For maybe an hour,” he says dryly. “Then you’ll get bored, trust me.”
 

“How’s the food at those things?”

He chuckles. “Not too bad, actually. But I don’t get to sit down and eat. I’m busy walking around and talking.”
 

“Aww, poor baby,” I tease.

He nudges me. “Shut up. Yeah, yeah, I should be thankful and all that.” He raises an eyebrow. “But it’s still boring as fuck.”
 

I hold up my coffee cup. “Here’s to a non-boring-as-fuck night.”
 

“Thanks,” he says and picks up his own coffee mug. “If you were with me, it wouldn’t be boring.”
 

He’s referencing sex again. I think. Or maybe I’m good company to keep? Hell if I know.
 

He finishes his cinnamon roll and set his fork down on his plate. “Are you up for one more round of Mario Kart?”

*

Ben said he’d call me when he left an hour later. I didn’t ask when he’d call, even though I wanted to. It’s a legit question, after all. Sunday came and passed with no word from him. So did Monday. Tuesday morning I get up and think what we had was a fling. I’m feeling a little down as I drive to work, and stop at the McDonald’s drive thru to get something greasy that will kill my stomach later as comfort food.
 

Around eleven, I’m nodding off as I code a custom template for another client. My stomach grumbles and I can taste the two hash browns I ate earlier. I lean back in my rolly chair and rub my eyes, thankful I didn’t bother with mascara this morning. I’m thinking about what I should get for lunch when Ben texts me.
 

When do you get off work?

Five-ish,
I type back.
Why?

I want to see you
.

I smile and read his two texts again, making sure I read his message right. Before I can reply he asks me when I go to lunch and asks if I want to meet with him somewhere. My smile broadens and we agree to meet at noon at a locally run cafe not far from my office.
 

The next hour drags on forever.
 

Ben is already in the cafe when I get there, absent-mindedly stirring his coffee with his straw, eyes down on a book. He looks up when I’m a few feet away and smiles.
 

“Hey,” he says and checks me out. A flash of regret over my outfit choice goes through me, but I quickly squish it down. I like my World of Warcraft Alliance Polo shirt. And Polo shirts are sexy … or at least they were in the early 2000s. Whatever.
 

Ben is wearing jeans and a light blue T-shirt that is covered in something dark, but looks too thin to be paint. The closer I get, the more I can smell the varnish. He doesn’t give a fuck how he looks, though to be fair, the messy artist look is working for him.
 

“Hi,” I say and take my purse of my shoulder. He puts his book down and stands, extending an arm, putting it around my waist and pulling me in for a quick kiss.
 

“How long do you have?” he asks me.
 

“Like forty-five minutes. You? Oh wait, it doesn’t matter, does it?”