Ben stayed right where he was—kneeling on the hotel carpet, framed by her legs—and watched the tension leave her body like a magic trick.

One second she was holding court, defending her walking skills; the next, she was pouring herself onto the mattress like liquid mercury. He watched her chest rise and fall with that long, deep exhale, and he felt a sympathetic looseness spread through his own shoulders.

"Strategically sound," he echoed, his voice dropping to a murmur. "I’d say it’s a tactical masterclass. You look very comfortable. I’m jealous."

He didn't move to join her up there yet. He wasn't done with the service portion of the evening.

He reached out, capturing her right foot again. His hands were large and warm, wrapping completely around her arch. He didn't ask for permission; he just started. He pressed his thumbs firmly into the sole of her foot, finding the tight spot right in the center where the heel had been punishing her all night.

"This is nice?" he teased softly, looking up at her chin and the line of her throat exposed to the ceiling. "Baby, you have low standards. Lying down is just the baseline. We haven't even hit the premium features yet."

He worked his thumbs in a slow, circular rhythm, digging deep enough to make it count but gentle enough to keep her in that floaty state. He watched her reaction closely—the way her toes curled slightly, the way her breathing hitched. It was a different kind of applause than he got on stage, but frankly, he liked this one better.

"I found a knot," he announced gravely, sliding his hand up to cup her heel and stretch the foot gently. "I think this one has a name. I think it’s named 'The Walk from the Car.' It’s a stubborn little guy."

He moved his hands up, sliding over her ankle and gliding along the curve of her calf. Her skin was cool, smooth, and soft under his palms. He used the heels of his hands to push upward, dragging long, firm strokes from her ankle toward her knee, working the muscle that had been holding her up in those heels all night.

"You know," he murmured, his gaze dropping to watch his own hands on her skin, contrasting against the dark navy of her dress that had ridden up her thighs. "I’m a man of many talents. Musician. Actor. Unlicensed podiatrist. You’re really getting the full Ben Wilder experience tonight."

He switched legs, giving her left foot the same devoted attention, kneading the arch until he felt the resistance melt away. He loved touching her like this—not grabbing, not taking, just giving. It grounded him. It made the room feel small and the world outside irrelevant.

He slid his hands up her left calf, squeezing the muscle gently, his thumbs tracing the line of her shin bone. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the mattress on either side of her knees, looking up the length of her body to her face.

"How we doing?" he asked, a crooked, charming grin playing on his lips. "Is the customer satisfied? Or do I need to call in a manager?"

He squeezed her calf one last time, playful but possessing.

"I charge hourly, by the way," he whispered, his eyes dancing. "But I accept payment in soup decisions and exclusively focused attention."

Cleo didn’t move at first. She let herself stay exactly where she was—spread out on the bed, limbs loose, spine sinking into the mattress like it finally trusted gravity again. The ceiling above her blurred at the edges, not from the wine so much as from the relief of being done, of being held by the quiet instead of the noise.

When he said strategically sound, she let out a soft, breathy laugh that barely made it past her lips.

“Mmh,” she murmured, eyes still on the ceiling. “I knew you’d appreciate the tactical angle.”

Then he said it—the thing about premium features—and that finally pulled her attention fully back to him.

She tilted her head just enough to look down the length of her body at him there on the carpet, kneeling like this was exactly where he belonged, hands already warm around her foot. Her mouth curved, slow and fond, the kind of smile that came from somewhere deep and unguarded.

“Baby,” she said quietly, voice warm and sure, “I would stay at a one-star motel with flickering lights and a suspicious ice machine if it meant I got to be with you.”

Her toes flexed instinctively when his thumbs pressed into her arch, a soft sigh slipping out before she could stop it. She didn’t even bother pretending she was composed. Not tonight. Not here.

“This?” she added, eyes fluttering closed again. “This is just… bonus content.”

When he teased her about low standards, she laughed again—this time a little fuller, a little tipsier.

“Hey,” she protested mildly, though there was no heat in it. “I have very high standards. You just happen to meet all of them while kneeling on hotel carpet and touching my feet.”

Her breathing slowed as he worked, the rhythm of his hands steady and intentional. She felt herself melting in stages—the kind of unraveling that didn’t feel dramatic, just inevitable. When he announced he’d found a knot, she groaned softly, tipping her head to the side.

“Oh, that one?” she said. “Yeah. That’s absolutely named after the walk from the car. It’s been holding a grudge all night.”

Her fingers curled loosely into the sheets when his hands slid up her calf, the pressure firm and grounding. She could feel how careful he was—not just with her body, but with her mood, her edges. It made her chest ache in that quiet, good way.

When he listed off his many talents, she cracked one eye open to look at him, amusement shining through the haze.

“Unlicensed podiatrist is really where you shine,” she said dryly. “Very niche. Very exclusive service.”

She watched him switch to her other leg, watched the focus in his face as if this mattered just as much as anything else he did in the world. Maybe more. It made her feel seen in a way that had nothing to do with being looked at.

When he leaned closer and asked how they were doing, manager jokes and all, she finally shifted. Slowly, lazily, like she didn’t want to break the spell.

She bent one knee, then the other, planting her feet lightly on the mattress. Then she sat up, the movement unhurried, her body still loose from his hands. She reached for him without thinking, fingers sliding into his hair first, then down to his cheek.

Her thumb brushed along his jaw, slow and affectionate, her touch warm and grounding now, returning the care he’d just given her.

She looked at him properly then—really looked at him—and her expression softened into something deeply content.

“The customer,” she said gently, a smile tugging at her lips, “is extremely satisfied.”

She leaned in just enough to press her forehead briefly to his, breathing him in, before pulling back again.

“Five stars,” she added. “Would absolutely book again.”

Ben leaned into her hand the moment it touched his face, his eyes slipping shut for a second as her thumb brushed his jaw.

He let out a long, ragged exhale, the kind that emptied his lungs of the last remaining bits of tour stress. Hearing her talk about one-star motels and suspicious ice machines—and knowing she meant it—hit him harder than the wine. It grounded him. It made him feel like he wasn't just a destination for her; he was the journey.

"Five stars," he repeated, his voice low and raspy, vibrating against her palm.

He turned his face just enough to press a kiss to the center of her hand, his lips lingering on her skin, warm and devout.

"I’ll take it. I’ll frame it. I’ll put it on my business card right under 'Retired Wizard.'"

He opened his eyes, looking up at her through his lashes with a gaze that was equal parts mischief and absolute, terrifying adoration. He kept his hands on her knees, his thumbs sweeping back and forth over the soft skin of her inner thighs, grounding her, claiming her.

"But regarding the one-star motel," he murmured, a crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You have terrible taste, Cleo. I, for one, refuse to sleep anywhere that doesn't offer at least a complimentary continental breakfast. I have standards. I’m a diva."

He chuckled softly, but the sound faded as he looked at her—really looked at her—sitting there with her hair wild and her dress riding up, looking at him like he hung the moon.

"Five stars," he whispered again, shaking his head slightly as if he couldn't believe his luck.
He shifted his grip, sliding his hands up her thighs just a few inches, not pushing for more, just needing to be closer.

"Just so you know," he said, his voice dropping into that intimate, serious register that made the air in the room feel thinner. "I don't offer this service to just anyone. The 'Ben Wilder Premium Package' is extremely exclusive. It’s a very limited release. You have to know a guy."

He leaned forward, resting his chin on her knee, looking up at her with big, soulful eyes that knew exactly what they were doing.

"But for you?" He smiled, slow and soft. "I'm fully booked. Indefinitely. You can have the whole schedule."

He moved one hand from her leg to capture hers where it rested on his cheek, interlacing their fingers and bringing her knuckles to his lips for another kiss.

"Now," he murmured against her skin, lingering there like he had all the time in the world.
He didn't make a move to get up. He didn't check the time. He just stayed there, kneeling between her legs on the hotel carpet, looking up at her with a quiet, devastating sincerity that cut through all the jokes.

"I think I’m going to stay right here for a minute," he whispered, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. "Because looking at you like this? Happy, relaxed, looking at me like that?"

He shook his head slowly, a soft, amazed smile touching his lips.

"It beats any view I've ever had from a stage, Cleo. Hands down. No contest."

Cleo’s smile tugged slow and crooked as she felt his breath warm against her palm, the rasp of his voice vibrating right into her skin.

“Five stars,” she echoed softly, amused and a little undone by how serious he sounded about it. “You say it like you’re trying to convince yourself, not me.”

She laughed under her breath at the business card comment, her thumb still tracing the familiar line of his jaw. “Retired Wizard stays,” she said fondly. “But if you laminate it, I’m judging you.”

When he called her taste terrible, she tipped her head back slightly, eyes half-lidded, laughter spilling out warmer this time. “Excuse you,” she murmured. “My taste is impeccable. I just don’t require… amenities to be happy.” Her gaze dropped back to him, affectionate and steady. “I require you.”

Her breath hitched just a little as his hands shifted, not pushing, just closer—close enough to remind her he was there, present, choosing her. She reached down, fingers threading through his hair, grounding herself the way he always grounded her.

“And don’t pretend I don’t know a guy,” she added quietly. “I know the guy. Very well.”

When he rested his chin on her knee and looked up at her like that—open, reverent, devastating—her chest tightened. She softened immediately, the jokes slipping away.

“Indefinitely sounds right,” she said, voice low and certain. “I don’t need the schedule. I just need… this.”

She let him stay there, kneeling, unhurried, like time had agreed to pause for them. Her thumb brushed over his knuckles when he kissed her hand again, her touch returning the care without thinking.

“That stage line,” she murmured, eyes shining. “You’re not allowed to say things like that and expect me not to fall apart a little.”

She shifted then, slowly, carefully, sitting up straighter. Her hand slid from his cheek to his shoulder as she rose to her feet, steady despite the haze. She turned her back to him, fingers finding the zipper at the back of her dress, pausing.

“Hey,” she said softly, glancing over her shoulder with a small, trusting smile. “Can you unzip me?”

The zipper slid down. The dress followed, whispering to the floor at her feet. She stepped out of it without hurry, bare and unguarded in the quiet, then turned back to him.

Cleo leaned down, hands resting lightly on his shoulders, and kissed him gently—slow, tender, full of warmth rather than urgency. When she pulled back, her forehead rested against his, her smile soft and unmistakably content.

Then she whispered, just for him, voice calm and sure—

“Come to bed with me.”

Ben watched her rise, the movement fluid and graceful despite the wine, and he made no move to follow her up. He stayed right where he was—kneeling on the plush hotel carpet, hands resting on his thighs—and watched the perspective shift. Suddenly, she was towering over him, a vision in navy blue and messy curls, while he remained anchored at her feet.

When she turned her back to him and asked him to unzip her, the air in the room seemed to thicken, charging with a sudden, electric intimacy.

"Unzip you," he repeated, his voice low, the words rumbling in his chest. "I think I can handle that. It falls under my jurisdiction as unlicensed support staff."

He didn't stand. He didn't even think about standing. The position felt right—devotional, attentive, exactly where he wanted to be.

He reached up, his large hands hovering for a second against the small of her back, feeling the warmth radiating off her skin through the fabric. He traced the line of her spine upward with his thumbs, a ghost of a touch, before his fingers found the small metal tab at the top of the dress.

He pulled it down slowly.

The sound was a sharp, erotic zzzzzt that cut through the silence of the room. He watched the navy fabric part, revealing the pale, smooth curve of her back, inch by inch, vertebra by vertebra. He resisted the urge to press his mouth to her skin right then and there—though it cost him something—and instead let his hands slide down her sides, guiding the fabric as it loosened.

The dress pooled at her feet in a soft, dark cloud.

She stepped out of it, bare and beautiful, and turned to face him.

Ben stopped breathing.

From down here, looking up at her, she looked like a goddess who had decided to grace a mortal with a visit. She leaned down, her hands finding his shoulders to steady herself, and brought her face to his level.

He met her halfway, tilting his head back, his hands coming up to cup her face, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones. The kiss was slow, sweet, and tasted faintly of red wine and absolute certainty. It wasn't a hungry kiss; it was a promise.

When she pulled back, her forehead resting against his, and whispered it—Come to bed with me—Ben let out a short, incredulous breath, a laugh trapped in his throat.

He kissed her nose, then her lips one more time, before finally unfolding his frame.

He stood up, rising to his full height until he was the one looking down, the dynamic shifting effortlessly from worship to protection.

"Cleo," he whispered, shaking his head slightly as he looked at her, marveling at the fact that she was real. "You say that like there is literally anywhere else in the universe I would rather be."

He didn't wait for her to walk. He bent down, sweeping one arm behind her knees and the other around her back, and lifted her effortlessly into his arms. He held her high against his chest, holding her like she was the only thing in the room that had any gravity, burying his face in the curve of her neck for a brief, grounding second.

"Request accepted," he murmured into her skin, carrying her the few steps to the bed. "Schedule cleared. Management has been informed."

He lowered her onto the mattress, the sheets cool against her skin, and followed her down immediately. He covered her body with his, taking his weight on his elbows so he could just look at her—hair fanned out on the pillow, eyes bright and trusting.

"I’m yours," he said, staring into her eyes with a crooked, helpless smile that was all truth and no performance. "Clocked in. Overtime approved. Whatever you want."

Cleo smiled up at him when he said it, really smiled — the kind that settled instead of sparkled.

“Anywhere else?” she murmured, voice low and steady. “No. I didn’t think so.”

When he lowered her onto the bed and hovered there, careful with his weight, she didn’t rush him. She let the moment stretch, let him look. One leg stayed long beneath him, relaxed. The other bent naturally at his side, anchoring him close.

Her hands slid into his hair first, grounding, familiar. She kissed him — slow, deliberate — not asking, not hesitating. Her palms traced over his shoulders, down his back, feeling the tension there, the restraint.

“Mmm… Ben,” she mumbled softly against his mouth.

Her fingers slipped under his shirt, warm against his skin, and before he could fully help, she tugged — one smooth, decisive pull — catching one arm and the neckline, peeling the fabric away in a single motion.

She didn’t rush the next kiss either.

Just held him there, close and certain, like this was exactly where he belonged.

Cleo stayed there with him for a moment, forehead brushing his, her breath evening out as if she needed the pause to be brave enough for what came next.

Her hands slowed where they rested on his back, thumbs tracing small, absent lines like she was grounding herself through touch. When she spoke, her voice was quiet—not fragile, just honest in a way she didn’t always allow herself to be.

“Hey,” she murmured, tipping her head just enough to look at him properly. “There’s something I need to say before I lose my nerve.”

She swallowed, a small smile tugging at her mouth, more soft than playful.

“I thought I already loved you as much as I could,” she said. “I really did. I remember thinking—this is it, this is the ceiling, this is as deep as it goes.”

Her fingers curled lightly into his shirtless back, anchoring him there.

“But these last couple of months?” she went on, shaking her head a little. “They did something to me. Watching you show up. Watching you stay. The way you’re gentle when no one’s watching, the way you let me be exactly who I am without trying to fix it or frame it or make it prettier.”

Her voice softened even more, warmth settling into every word.

“I didn’t know it could keep growing like this,” she admitted. “I didn’t know I could fall harder after I was already in love.”

She leaned in, brushing a kiss against the corner of his mouth—not asking, just reassuring.

“I’m in it,” she whispered. “More than I ever thought I’d be. More than I planned. And I don’t feel scared about that at all.”

Her forehead rested against his again, her smile small but certain.

“I just feel… sure.”

Ben felt the shirt tear away from his body, the fabric bunching at his elbows before he shrugged it off completely, tossing it blindly onto the floor.

But the physical sensation of skin-on-skin was nothing compared to the absolute sledgehammer of her words.

I didn’t know I could fall harder.

Ben stopped breathing. He froze, hovering over her, his weight braced on his forearms, staring down at her face. The air in the room seemed to vanish, sucked out by the sheer gravity of what she just admitted.

He had been prepared to be the caretaker tonight. He had been ready to be "Zen Ben," the guy who gives foot massages and opens wine bottles and tucks her in with a chaste kiss on the forehead because she’s had a long day and a few drinks. He was ready to be noble.

But then she looked at him with those wide, hazy, devastatingly honest eyes and told him she was in it.

"You..." Ben started, his voice cracking, rougher than sandpaper. "You can't just say things like that, Cleo. You can't drop a nuclear bomb of affection while I'm trying to be a gentleman."

He didn't give her a chance to respond. He couldn't. The surge of emotion—love, relief, and a fierce, blinding desire—was too much to contain behind a smile.

He crashed his mouth down onto hers.

This wasn't the slow, sweet kiss from before. This was hungry. It was deep and wrecking. He groaned into her mouth, his tongue sweeping inside to taste the wine and the truth on her breath. He kissed her like he was trying to memorize the shape of her soul, like he needed to physically consume the words she’d just spoken.

He let his restraint slip—just enough.

He lowered his hips, letting his full weight settle between her legs, pressing the hard ridge of his erection firmly against her thigh. He wanted her to feel it. He wanted there to be zero ambiguity about what she did to him.

"Sure," he gasped, breaking the kiss but staying right there, his lips hovering millimeters from hers. "You feel sure? Good. Because I feel... insane. I feel like I'm losing my mind."

He moved his hands from the mattress to cup her face, his thumbs stroking hard over her cheekbones, holding her gaze with an intensity that burned.

"I tried to be good," he rasped, grinding his hips against her in a slow, deliberate circle that made his own breath hitch. "I was going to tuck you in. I was going to let you sleep."
He kissed her jaw, his mouth hot and wet, moving down to the sensitive cord of her neck where her pulse was hammering.

"But you had to go and tell me you love me more," he growled against her skin, nipping lightly at her throat. "And now I don't think I can be noble, Cleo. I think I need to be inside you. I think I need to show you exactly how hard I’ve fallen."

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, searching for any sign of hesitation, checking the haze in her gaze to make sure she was still with him. He needed her to know this wasn't just the wine talking for him either.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered, his voice dark and desperate, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. "Tell me you're too tired. Tell me to clock out. Because if you don't... I am going to ruin you for anyone else. I am going to love you until you can't remember your own name."

Cleo blinked, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks. The wine had made the edges of the room soft, but Ben—hovering above her, desperate and raw—was the clearest thing she had ever seen.

His words washed over her like hot water. Ruin you. The threat didn’t scare her; it thrilled her. It settled deep in her belly, coiling tight and warm. He was trying to be good, trying to give her an escape hatch, but the sweetness of that, the sheer protective instinct of it, only made her want him with a ferocity that cut right through the alcohol in her system. She wasn't confused. She wasn't just "tired." She knew exactly what she was asking for.

She reached up, her hands sliding from his shoulders to wrap around the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair to anchor him there. She could feel the tension vibrating through his frame, the sheer effort it was taking him to hover instead of crush her, and she decided to break that restraint once and for all.

"Let's make our babies," she mumbled against his lips.

The words were hushed, pressed directly into his mouth, but they were perfectly distinct. There was no hesitation, no stumble in her speech—just a heavy, undeniable promise.

Before he could even process the words, before he could gasp or argue, she surged upward. She pressed her lips against his, her tongue sweeping into his mouth with a hunger that matched his own. She kissed him like she was searching for oxygen, like he was the only air left in the room and she was drowning.

She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled, dragging his weight down until there was no space left between them. She felt the rough slide of his bare chest against her sensitive skin, his chest hair scratching an itch she hadn't known she had, rasping against her breasts. It was abrasive and raw and real, and she didn’t care. She loved it. She arched into him, a silent demand for him to stop talking, stop hovering, and just be with her.

She poured everything she had into the kiss, drinking him in, tasting the shock and the desire warring on his tongue. She wasn't letting him go; she wasn't letting him overthink this. The wine made her bold, but the love made her certain.

Her hands slid up from his neck, her palms warm and steady as she cupped his face. She held him there, framing him like he was the only thing worth looking at, even with her eyes squeezed shut against the rush of sensation. Her thumbs grazed the rough stubble along his jaw, loving the friction, loving the masculine grit of him that contrasted so perfectly with the desperate tenderness of his mouth on hers.

Then, her fingers pushed higher, diving past his temples and into the thick waves of his hair. She gripped the dark strands, tugging gently to angle his head deeper into the kiss, anchoring him to her. As the texture slid between her fingers—soft, dense, and wild—a fierce, hazy thought bloomed in the back of her mind.

I want this, she thought, her heart hammering against his chest. She wanted a little boy with these same dark, unruly curls. She wanted a little girl with this same thick mane to braid. She wanted his stamp on the world, woven right into the DNA of the family she was begging him to start right now.

Let's make our babies.

The words didn't just land; they detonated.

The last shred of Ben’s "noble boyfriend" act evaporated in a cloud of white-hot heat. He groaned, a guttural sound that vibrated against her lips, and kissed her back with a hunger that bordered on violence. He wasn't gentle anymore. He devoured her, his tongue sweeping deep into her mouth, tasting the wine and the reckless promise she’d just made.

He felt her legs hook around his waist, pulling him down, and the friction of her soft skin against his bare chest sent a jolt of electricity straight to his groin. He ground his hips against her thigh, unable to help himself, needing the friction, needing to feel the resistance of her body against his.

But it wasn't enough. The clothes were in the way. The denim of his jeans felt like a cage.
He broke the kiss, gasping for air, and scrambled back. He didn't say a word—he couldn't. His breath was coming in short, harsh pants as he stood up by the side of the bed. His hands fumbled with his belt, fingers clumsy with urgency, ripping the buckle open. He shoved his jeans down, not caring that the button flew off or that he nearly tripped getting them over his heels. He kicked them aside. His boxer briefs followed a second later, discarded in a pile on the floor.

He was hard, painfully so, the cool air of the room hitting his skin only emphasizing the heat radiating off him.

He moved back to the bed instantly, crawling over the mattress like a predator returning to its kill. He positioned himself between her spread legs, looming over her, his eyes dark and dilated as he took in the sight of her—flushed, wild-haired, and waiting.

He reached for the waistband of her panties—a scrap of white lace that looked impossibly innocent against her skin. He hooked his thumbs into the sides and dragged them down. He lifted her hips easily with one hand, sliding the fabric down her thighs, over her knees, and off her ankles, tossing them blindly into the room.

Now there was nothing. No barriers. Just her.

He settled his weight between her thighs, careful not to crush her but needing to be close. He pressed his hips forward, the head of his cock brushing against her slick heat, teasing the entrance but not entering. Not yet.

He wanted to savor this. He wanted to make sure she was ready for everything he was about to give her.

He lowered his head to the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her aroused skin, while his hand moved down between their bodies. He found her wetness instantly. She was soaked, slick with desire, and the feeling nearly sent him over the edge right there.

"So wet," he breathed against her throat, biting lightly at the sensitive cord of muscle.

He used his thumb to circle her clit, dragging through the slickness, applying a steady, rhythmic pressure that made her hips buck up against his hand. He kept teasing her, rubbing the swollen bundle of nerves, spreading her wetness over her folds until she was glistening. But he wanted her slicker. He wanted her sliding open for him without a hint of friction.

He pulled his hand away, bringing his fingers up to his mouth. He held her gaze, his eyes dark and intense, as he licked his fingers, coating them thoroughly, wetting them until they glistened.

He brought his hand back down, the cool slide of saliva mixing with her heat as he found her entrance again.

He slipped one slick finger inside her, then a second. They glided in effortlessly, deep and smooth. He scissored them slowly, stretching her, preparing her. He felt her inner muscles clamp down around his fingers, pulsing a welcome, and he groaned, resting his forehead against hers as he pumped his fingers in and out, mimicking the thrusts he was desperate to give her.

He kept the rhythm steady, his thumb continuing its relentless work on her clit, while he stared into her eyes, watching her pupils blow wide, watching her breath hitch and catch. He wasn't going to stop until she was begging. Until she was so open and ready that taking her would be the only option left.

Cleo’s breath hitched, a ragged sound escaping her throat as she arched against the relentless rhythm of his hand. The sensation was electric—the slick, sliding pressure, the way he was stretching her—but it wasn't what she was aching for. The emptiness inside her felt vast, and his fingers, while skilled, were just a placeholder for the weight and warmth she truly needed. She didn't want to be prepared; she wanted to be possessed.

She reached up, her hands trembling slightly as she found his face. She slid her palms over his warm cheeks, her fingers threading into the hair at his temples to hold him still. She pulled him down gently, guiding him until his focus was entirely on her, until his forehead rested against hers.

She brushed her lips against his, a feather-light caress that was a stark, tender contrast to the heavy heat pulsing between her legs.

"Ben, please," she whispered against his mouth, her voice soft and thick with need. "Don't... don't tease me anymore. I don't want to wait." She kissed the corner of his mouth, her eyes fluttering open to plead with him directly. "Just take me. Please, just make love to me."

She felt his hand pause, the rhythm stopping at her plea, and the sudden stillness made the empty ache inside her throb even harder. She didn't want the teasing; she wanted the completion. She wanted the promise she had made to become a reality.

She kept her hands on his face, her thumbs tracing the tense line of his cheekbones, feeling the heat radiating off him. She looked up into his eyes, trying to convey that this wasn't just the wine, and it wasn't just a whim. It was a deep, resonant need.

"I'm yours," she breathed, the words catching in her throat. She shifted her hips, tilting her pelvis up to graze against him, trying to guide him past the threshold he was hovering over. She wrapped her legs tighter around his waist, pulling him down, using her whole body to beg him to bridge that final gap.

"Right now, Ben," she whispered, her gaze unwavering. "Be with me. Completely."