“I bet you wish you’d brought your camera.”
I gasp, turning quickly. His voice is deep and seems to permeate my body, making me warmer. Goose pimples touch my skin.
He stands a few feet away, leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets. His shirt is open at the top, and his jacket hangs casually from his strong body.
His face is unreadable, his narrowed eyes impossible to judge.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Sorry?” he asks.
“I guess you want to be alone. I guess that’s why you’re here.”
He pushes away from the wall, swaggering over. Except, it’s not the exaggerated swagger of so many men – or boys – my own age. They’re so immature, trying to act tough and important.
Ben walks with the casual confidence of a man who knows he can handle himself. And, of course, he can. He was a championship boxer before retiring and becoming a businessman.
“I followed you,” he says, stopping just short of me.
When I lick my lips, I notice his intense eyes shift to my mouth. His jaw tenses, and his eyes widen like he’s about to rush me, like he’s never been so excited.
My heart thumps loudly in my ears, ricocheting through me.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because I’m an idiot,” he snarls. “Because, even if I should know better, even if I know this is wrong, even if I know we should stop….”
He moves even closer, his hands reaching down to my hips. He squeezes with the force of an owner like he wants to grab me, to possess me, to fuck children into me.
Stop it, I yell at myself. He doesn’t want that.
Maybe he wants a quickie. Maybe he wants a fling.
But not all that other stuff.
And yet it doesn’t feel like it matters, not when he presses even harder, making my body shimmer. I’ve always been self-conscious about the shape of my body, but he grunts as he pulls us together, like he can’t get enough.
His manhood pushes against my belly, solid, feeling massive.
“We should stop,” he growls, leaning down, staring directly into my eyes.
“I know,” I whisper.
“I couldn’t stop looking at you during the ceremony. Standing there in your form-hugging dress, showing off all the best parts of you.”
I instinctively shake my head, even as the compliment makes my cheeks warm. “I haven’t got any best parts.”
“Becca,” he snaps, making me jump.
He smirks. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. But don’t say stuff like that. You’re beautiful.”
I shake my head again. I can’t think of what else to do or say.
It’s difficult to even think, especially when he smooths one hand from my hip, around to my back, pressing down firmly, so our bodies feel like they’re going to fuse.
“You are,” he snarls. “You’re gorgeous. Your smile, the way you quirk your eyes, the… how vivacious you look, how excited, excitable. And then there’s your body… Jesus, I need to stop. This isn’t right.”
But neither of us moves away. Instead, I reach up, hands trembling as I place them on his shoulders. My hands squeeze onto him tightly, digging into his shoulders, feeling the firmness through his suit.