Ben shakes his head and steps away from me. He bends down for the bag and continues to pick up the empty bottles. “Go home, Elle.”
“No, I told you I’d help. I made this mess, and I’ll clean it up.” I reach for the bag and try to tug it out of his hand. His resistance is causing the bag to sway back and forth, hitting us both in the legs. “Let go.”
“No.”
“You’re such a child.” I yank harder this time, and so does he, the thick plastic stretching.
“And you’re drunk and in need of some help. Don’t you see it? You’re self-destructing, and there isn’t anything we can do to stop you. I want to though. I want to be the friend you need, help you through whatever’s going on in your head.” Ben steps closer and points to his temple. “Let me help you, Elle.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” I roar as I push him away. I’m angry and keep pushing until Ben’s back is against the wall on the opposite side of his apartment.
“Elle?” His hand comes toward me, but I bat it away. He tries again, and this time I close my fist and cock my arm back. I try with all my might to hit him, but he’s faster than I am. His hand closes around my fist, and the force of my movement has me crashing into him.
I look into his eyes as a barrage of hateful words form in my head. I expect Ben to let me go, but he doesn’t. He places his arm around my back and pulls me to his body just as his lips press against mine.
6
Ben
For years, I’ve imagined what it would be like to kiss Elle, to finally feel her lips touch mine, to have her body pressed against me, and to have her fingers tug at the ends of my hair. I can easily say, without a doubt, that it’s the best feeling in the world. In fact, it’s more than that, because she’s not pulling away. She’s not pushing against me, telling me to stop, even though, deep down I know we should. However, for the life of me, I can’t bring myself to be the one to suggest we take a step back because I want this. I’ve wanted to kiss her for as long as I can remember. For purely selfish reasons, I wrap my arm tightly around her in hopes of memorizing her and this moment.
Elle’s fingers loosen their grip on my hair, leading me to believe this is over. It’s fine. This will go down as one of the best birthday gifts of my life. I can live with this, burying it deep in my subconscious. Only her hands are now on my waist with one under my shirt. Her fingers are ice cold. They’re a welcome reprieve against my scorched skin. Her other hand is tugging at the button on my jeans. Any moment now she’s going to realize what’s going on and step back, flushed not because we’re making out but because she’s embarrassed by the fact that it’s me she’s kissing, and I don’t want to see her like that.
“Elle.” My strangled and broken voice sounds nothing like me.
“Don’t talk, Ben.”
“We should stop.” Even though I don’t want to, Elle is who I picture my life with, the woman I see bearing my children, raising a family and growing old with. I’ve tried to see others in this role, but to no avail. It’s always Elle.
“No, we shouldn’t.” Her lips are everywhere, while I stand here like a fish out of water looking for oxygen. I close my eyes and picture us together, between my sheets, moving fluidly against one another.
“You’ve had a lot to drink.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“I didn’t say you were, but I want you to think about what you’re doing, what we’re about to do. Because there’s no turning back, Elle.”
“I want this, Ben.”
That’s all I need to know. I bend down and slide my arms under her legs. She reacts instantly, hopping into my hold and wrapping her legs around my waist. Hands are everywhere. Mine are firmly gripping her ass, and hers are cupping my face. Our lips fight for dominance over one another while I navigate toward the couch. There’s nothing like a great make-out session to end the semester and the perfect birthday party.
“Bedroom,” she says, tearing away from my mouth. Her lips press against the stubble on my jaw, until she reaches my ear. I suck in a deep breath when her teeth pull on my lobe, the sharp sting sending minute shock waves through my body. I must be dreaming. None of this can actually be my reality. With my luck, I’m going to wake up in the middle of my living room floor, naked as the day I was born, and suffering from a massive hangover.
Except, I know I didn’t drink very much, especially when I’m around Elle out of fear she’ll overdo it and I need to come to her rescue. We stumble into my wall, causing us both to disengage from each other. I use this time to ask the dreaded question. “Are you sure?”
Her response isn’t verbal, but there’s no way I can misinterpret what her hand means when it's pressing against my crotch. I fumble with my door, kicking it open once the knob turns. As many times as I’ve stumbled through my room, I’ve never tripped, until now. Thankfully, we land on my bed, both of us groaning and readjusting until she’s scrambling away from me. I sit back on my knees, waiting for her to tell me what we’re doing is a mistake, but she doesn’t say anything.
“Elle?”
The only response I receive is the lifting of her shirt. I swallow hard at the sight of her body, one I’ve seen many times in a bikini, but this time everything is different. She reaches behind her, and I know she’s unclasping her bra. That should really be something I do, but maybe she knows I’m nervous and is trying to show me she wants to be with me.
I follow suit and start undressing. Before I know it, we’re both on our knees, facing each other, naked, and my God is she beautiful. Elle pushes her long dark hair over her shoulders, giving my eyes access to every
part of her chest. For years, I could only dream about seeing her in the flesh, and now here she is.
“Touch me.” Elle reaches for my hand, pulling me toward her until my hand is firmly cupping her breast. I’m at a loss for words, which I should be. My actions need to be loud and clear where she’s concerned. I move forward. My free hand grips the back of her neck, bringing her closer. Our lips touch, tongues collide, and hands move freely against each other. She’s on top, grinding into me, and then it’s me pressing into her before I can no longer stand not knowing how she feels.
I pull the drawer of my bedside table open. In the process, I knock over an uncapped bottle of water, the contents gushing out onto the floor. Normally, I’d be upset and rush to find a rag to soak up the mess, but there are more pressing issues calling my attention.