She motioned for him to take off his boxer shorts, which he did. Then she held out her arms, a silent invitation for him to come over her, and he did that, too. Neither of them saying a word, she rolled the condom down him in a slow caress, taking her time.
When he couldn’t stand it any longer, he trapped her wandering hands. Put them over her head. Pinned them to the mattress.
She wouldn’t have allowed another man to restrain her, but with Ben, she felt excited, not overpowered. She wanted him on top of her. Inside her.
Moaning, she wrapped her legs around his waist, squirming beneath him, all but begging for him to come into her. He was right there, so close she could feel the blunt head of his erection throbbing at her body’s opening.
She lifted her hips, wanting to feel more.
With a strangled groan, he laced his fingers through hers and he pushed forward, filling her with one perfect thrust.
She gasped.
Nothing had prepared her for that moment. Not the intimate scene in the Jacuzzi. Not the sweet rasp of his tongue the night before.
It was too much. He was too big, too thick, too heavy, too masculine. The sensation was too intense, too emotional. She was on the verge of tears, and orgasm, and he hadn’t even touched the right spot.
Very deliberately, he released her hands.
Sobbing, she threw her arms around his neck and pressed her face to his throat, longing for the sweet torment to end, hoping it would go on forever.
Using the position to his advantage, he slid his hands underneath her, curling his fingers around her collarbone. With his body covering hers, he pulled back and thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt, again. And again.
She could feel every inch of him, stretching her, sliding into her, creating an impossibly arousing friction. She couldn’t stop herself from coming any more than she could keep from crying out loud.
He covered his mouth with hers, swallowing the sound. When she quieted, he raised his head to look at her, his eyes so full of wonder that she burst into tears.
Undeterred by her emotionalism, he just kept moving inside her, slow and easy, in no hurry to finish even though she already had. He watched her face, gauging her reactions, and soon she forgot her tears because he drove himself deep and hard and at just the right angle, hitting just the right spot.
She came again, almost immediately.
This time it was too much for him. Shuddering, he buried his head in the crook of her neck and let her skin muffle his cry as she convulsed around him.
Then it was over, much too soon, and he was heavy, sweaty, and spent.
Refusing to let herself bask in the warmth of his embrace, she pushed at his chest. “Get off me. You must weigh a thousand pounds.”
He lifted his head from her neck and smiled that sexy, crooked half smile of his. His eyes were still sleepy, his cheekbones flushed, and his hair was all messed up, damp at the edges. He’d never looked better.
And she could no longer deny what she’d known all along. She was in love with him. “Feeling smug, are you?”
That wiped the grin off his face. “Well, yes. I mean, I can do a lot better, actually. But you did come twice.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re proud of that? I can do that in the shower.”
Taking the hint, finally, that she needed some space, he heaved himself off her. His ego, among other things, much too large to be daunted by her insults, he whistled a snappy tune all the way to the bathroom while she curled up in a miserable ball, feeling sorry for herself.
So I’m in love with him, she told herself. So what?
He’ll never love you back, an annoying little voice returned.
Groaning, she buried her face under a pillow, trying to stifle it. In the bathroom, she heard him turn on the shower faucet, still whistling.
He’ll never love you back, once he knows…
Furious with herself, and with him, for being so goddamned cheerful, she got up, stormed into the bathroom, and wrenched open the shower door. She was going to put a stop to all this love bullshit right now. Nip it in the bud. Smother it in its infancy.
He was rinsing soap off himself, smiling lazily. “Need me again so soon?”
“My brother killed my stepfather for raping me.”
He regarded her thoughtfully, as if what she’d just said was average postcoital conversation. “Why don’t you come in here and tell me about it?”
Her body humming with determination, she stepped into the shower. “I was sixteen,” she said, wetting her hair and lathering it furiously. “Rigo was twenty-two. He wanted to be a famous soccer player. It was his life.” She leaned her head back, rinsing.
He handed her the conditioner.
“My mom was always working odd jobs. And shacking up with strange men.” She closed her eyes, rinsed the conditioner from her hair. “Everett, my stepfather, wasn’t the first one who…took a liking to me.” She barely noticed when he handed her some masculine-smelling shower gel, was unaware that she scrubbed a little too vigorously.
“I think you’re clean,” he said, taking the soap out of her hands.
She stared down at the drain, waiting for the water to run clear. “Some of them liked Rigo, too,” she murmured.
He shut off the faucet, wrapping a towel around his waist and another around her.
“We both grew up pretty fast. He looked out for me. I looked up to him.” She stepped out of the shower stall. “If not for Rigo, what Everett did would have happened a lot sooner. But he couldn’t be there to protect me every minute.”
She snuck a glance at Ben, expecting to see pity. Or disgust. What she saw was fury.
“Go on,” he said.
Sonny had told this part of the story many, many times. Social services and court officials had made her repeat it, again and again. Like always, she delivered the lines flatly, her voice free of emotion, mind carefully blank. “One day when I came home from school, Everett was waiting for me. Rigo had been going to the local community college, playing on their soccer team, and he had practice.” She looked through Ben, not really seeing him. “Everett followed me into my room. We scuffled. He slapped me, and I fell against my dresser.” Remembering the explosion of pain, she lifted her hand to the back of her head. “By the time he was finished, I was barely conscious.”
A lot was left unsaid, but she couldn’t bring herself to describe the fear, the helplessness, the shame of reliving that experience every time she gave herself to a nameless, faceless boy in hopes of dulling her senses.
When she raised her eyes to Ben, she saw that his expression was fierce. “How did your brother kill him?” he asked. “You said he beat me to it.”
“Rigo was doing thirty days for possession when he met up with Everett in LA County Jail. He’s never admitted it, but I think he got arrested on purpose. He stabbed Everett thirteen times with a sharpened pencil.”
“How long ago?”
“Ten years.”
“And he’s still in prison?”
Tears flooded her eyes. “He got a twenty-year sentence. They made an example of him. Called it a gang-style execution.”
Ben ran his hand through his hair. “How old was he?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Jesus. Jesus Christ. What the fuck is wrong with the world? Did he appeal?”
“Yes, but he already had a criminal record, so that didn’t help. And Everett’s history was inadmissible.” She shivered, suddenly cold and very, very tired. “Sometimes I think what happened affected Rigo more than me. He blamed himself for not being there. Even before he got arrested, he wasn’t the same. He never played soccer again.”
Ben wrapped his arms around her, but her body was stiff and unyielding. “Tell me what you need from
