I Do With You (Maple Creek)

Chapter 12 BEN

Chapter 12

B EN

Breathe into you, witness you come alive. Give you all I am, so long as you survive.

Hope is fucking stunning. Once she got over her embarrassment at being called out by Kaitlyn, she truly joins the Strawberry Moon party.

She brings us the makings for s’mores, and we hold marshmallows over the fire, playfully arguing about when they’re done. I’m Team Blackened, of course, and Hope likes hers barely toasted. Regardless of who’s right or wrong, they’re delicious.

Afterward, she gets roped into a game of Simon Says with a group of kids, which I quickly opt out of. That lets me watch her smile and play, which is adorable, even if it makes me think of the kids she said she wants. It’s obvious that Hope will be a great mom.

I’ve never seen myself as a father. I don’t know how to imagine that because I don’t know what dads do ... or are. I’ve been so one-track minded that a future with a wife, kids, and all that never occurred to me. It’s always been music, music, music, but seeing the way Hope interacts with the kids plants a tiny seed I’ve never considered.

“Who’s Simon, anyway? And why does he get to decide what we do?” a little voice demands. One of the girls playing is apparently “out” because she moved when Simon didn’t say. And she’s about to have a meltdown in three, two, one ...

“It’s okay,” Hope comforts her. “It’s hard when we lose a game, right?” The girl nods, sniffling but not screaming like I’d expected. “I’m actually not sure who Simon is, but that’s how the game goes.”

The girl pouts. “Then I don’t want to play.”

“Okay, we could do something else,” Hope offers, and she glances up, meeting my eyes. “Hey! My friend over there is a really good singer. Maybe we could get him to sing a song about strawberries for us.”

I’m shaking my head, mouthing, No , and glaring at Hope with every bit of fuck that in my eyes. And still, she smiles. The little girl is smiling, too, looking eager at the possibility. But it’s Hope who is my undoing.

“I know. I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to say,” Hope tells me.

“I don’t sing in front of people ... not like this. Singing on the boat was a big deal.” Maybe I should’ve made that clear because there’s no way I can do what she wants me to do. I can already feel the panic bubbling up. It seems like everyone’s looking at me, but when I dart my eyes around, the only ones I see are Hope’s. No one else is paying me any attention ... yet. But when I start to sing, they will. And then all those nerves will rise to the surface, making my voice crack and my heart race. “I can’t.”

“If I can run away from my wedding, you can sing ‘Strawberry Wine’ with me,” Hope commands, sounding sure of herself. And of me.

Wait . . . what?

The shock of what she’s said short-circuits the anxiety, and I think maybe I misheard her. “You’re gonna sing with me?” I repeat.

She pats me on the chest, her touch easy and casual like she’s done it hundreds of times before, but it’s new and fresh, the buzz of it centering me instantly. “Don’t get excited. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, but I’m a rock star in my car,” she brags with zero shame.

Kaitlyn seems to have caught wind that something’s up, because she rushes over. “Oh my goodness, are you going to sing?”

I don’t know if she’s asking Hope or me. I know my answer: fuck no.

“Yeah, we are. Is ‘Strawberry Wine’ okay? It’s the only strawberry song I know. You know it, too, right, Ben?” Hope looks at me like this is a done deal. And maybe for her, it is.

“Oooh, I loooove a theme!” Kaitlyn singsongs. “But maybe ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ instead?”

Maybe she could sing with Hope? I’d play if I had my guitar, but singing? Nope, not me.

I don’t know what happens. I might’ve blacked out from hyperventilating for a second if I’m honest, but the next thing I know, I’m holding a cheap guitar from the resort’s music room and fucking with the strings, trying to get them in tune. Hope is sitting beside me, looking up at me like I hung the moon and can fix the world. Or at least fix tonight for one sad little girl who’s curled up in her dad’s lap by the fire.

“I’m not a singer, but I know the words, so ...,” Hope tells everyone.

“If you sing, you’re a singer. That’s all it takes,” Richard encourages her.

If only it were that easy.

Hope starts slowly. Her smile is warmer than the fire, her eyes sparkling brighter than the stars. She looks at me expectantly, and I want to sing with her—I swear I do—but I clench my teeth and play the accompanying tune. It’s the most I can do.

A few other voices join her, singing along, and Hope begins to sway. And still, I play. There are some decent voices in the group but several that are really off-key. No matter what, they all sing, finding acceptance and camaraderie.

Hope leans into my shoulder like she wants to be as close to me as possible, but the guitar is in her way, keeping her from climbing into my lap. Still, she smiles up at me like she’s making sure I feel how special this moment is.

I do. I feel it. I feel her.

It helps my fears fade, if only for tonight, and for the first time, I sing in front of people as me, Ben Taylor. I don’t have a mask, I’m not wearing body paint and a costume, and nobody is yelling my stage name. I’m ... me. And yet it’s okay.

My voice doesn’t crack. I don’t pass out. I don’t forget the words.

“G’night, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite,” Richard calls out. Everyone answers with some version of good night as they peel off, heading to their cottages.

Hope’s hand is entwined in mine as we walk. The buzz of her hand on my chest earlier was fire. This is gasoline on an inferno.

All night, I’ve watched her, felt her watching me, and enjoyed the slow burn of this thing between us as we looked into each other’s eyes, seeing so much more than the reflection of the fire. Eventually, she pressed her leg against mine, and her breath went jagged when I responded by laying my palm on her jean-clad thigh.

And now we’re about to be alone, behind a locked door, in the darkness, where anything can happen. It’s a chance at heaven, and I know exactly what I want.

Daylight comes, bright and cleansing, showing all you’d rather hide, no use pretending.

I need to remember that so I can hold myself back. Hope’s feeling wild and free tonight, but she’s not a casual, one-night-stand kind of girl. Tomorrow will come, and I don’t want to be something she regrets. And it’s not fair that she only knows a part of me, given that what I’m keeping from her is such a big piece of my life.

I unlock the door and let her go in first. I take a steadying breath, giving myself one last reminder that I am not going to throw Hope against the nearest supportive surface and bury my tongue in her, worshipping her the way she should be.

That sounds like a great idea.

No. It doesn’t. Not for her, and she’s what’s important. Not my dick.

The lamp in the living room provides a warm glow, making Hope’s profile look soft and hazy, but her chin is dropped and she’s nervously twisting her fingers. She’s about to tell me that she can’t do what she’s played at all night, and I’m about to go bed alone and rock-hard for her.

Which is fine. If she says no, then to my hand I can go.

“Hope—” I want to tell her that she doesn’t have to be scared. I’m not going to attack her, I’m not going to shame her for having a little fun flirting, and I’m not expecting her to follow through on it.

She looks up at me through her lashes and interrupts me. “You remember how you said that I should say what I like and what I don’t like?”

Instantly, I know what she’s talking about. Our conversation in the water. She’d been so responsive, even if she hadn’t realized it. Watching her breath catch, her nipples stiffen to diamond points, and her thighs clench beneath the surface was sexy as fuck.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice going quiet and gruff. It held through the singing when I expected it to give, but now, it’s all but choked in my throat because more than anything, I want to hear what Hope likes, want to know every single thing that brings her pleasure.

“I like ... um, kissing. But not ... more. At least, not for ... now,” she says, forcing the words out.

I lick my lips and smile when her eyes follow the movement. “You want to kiss me and let me kiss you, Hope? Is that what you want?” I’m precisely repeating her words on purpose. I need clarity. I want transparency in this. She nods jerkily, her eyes full of desire.

Fuck, she’s sexy. There’s probably a poetic way to say it better and I’ll find it later, but I can’t focus enough to think beyond lust and desire right now with her looking at me hopefully.

I slip my hand to her jaw, cupping her cheek to slide my thumb along her cheekbone, watching her lashes flutter at the intimate contact. I bend down, not to her lips but to her ear, exhaling slowly so that the heat glances over her sensitive earlobe before whispering, “You want me to memorize what you taste like by sipping at your lips, dancing my tongue over yours, and taking your breath into my lungs until the only oxygen I have is yours?”

A shudder runs through her body, her head falling more fully into my hand for support. “Yes,” she sighs.

I run the tip of my nose along the side of her face, enjoying this moment even as I’m anticipating the next. Hope lifts her eyes to mine, her lips parted in readiness. Her gaze moves from my right eye to my left, then down to my lips. I watch every second of her surrender, not to me but to herself. I want that. I want to be a part of her honoring her desires. She can use me however she needs to if it helps her.

Slowly, I angle my head and touch my lips to hers, and even with the gentlest brush, I feel electricity shoot through my body. But I take my time, kissing her over and over, exploring what she feels like tilted left and then right. I swipe my tongue along the seam of her mouth, and she opens hungrily for me.

I turn her, pinning her against the closed door, and kiss her harder, taking us deeper, moving us closer until I feel her stomach against my cock. The layers of fabric between us remind me to keep a tight grip on my restraint because my cock is straining for more, desperate for contact with her hand, her body, her pussy. But I won’t go too far or do more than Hope wants, and she’s decreed that tonight is about kissing.

I could do that for hours. Forever.

Hope laces her arms over my shoulders, gripping my neck, and I reach down to her thighs, taking a firm handful of her. She lifts her feet, wrapping those strong, sexy legs around my waist, and still, I keep her pressed to the door, our mouths exploring. I trail a line of kisses over her jaw, and when she angles her head away from me so I have fuller access, I bury my face in her neck. Her soft hair surrounds me, her flesh smells like campfire, and she tastes like ambrosia.

I suck at her neck and she goes wild, her hips bucking against me. “Do you want me to mark you?” I murmur against her flesh.

“I—I—” she stammers breathlessly.

I pause my trip along her collarbone and stare deeply into her eyes, so close that our noses are touching. “Yes or no, Hope. Tell me anything you want and I’ll give it to you.”

She’s panting, stalling by nipping my own scruffy jaw. “It sounds sexy. I want that, but ... not this time?” She licks along the racing pulse in my neck.

“Do you want to mark me? You can,” I groan as she places open-mouthed kisses along my neck. “Suck me, bite me, touch me. Your fingers on my skin and your mouth on my body are leaving marks that’ll always be there. Write your name on me any way you want, anywhere you want, Hope.”

Her thighs clench around my waist and then release as her feet reach the floor. But her mouth never leaves mine as she keeps ahold of my head, bringing me with her so that I’m forced to bend down to maintain contact. She pulls me toward the couch and I let her lead, desperate to see where she’s taking this.

Hope pushes me to the couch, following me as I sit and settling over me with her core aligned with my cock. Her knees squeeze at my hips and her feet loop back over my knees, holding them wide while she straddles me. I trace my hands up her spine, running my fingers through her hair, and she throws her head back, wanting more. I keep caressing her hair, her scalp, as I kiss along her exposed neck.

I won’t mark her visibly, but like I offered her, I’m going to write my name on her skin with my tongue, my breath, my attention. She melts into me, her head falling forward until she meets my eyes again. Hers are hazy and lust-filled. I imagine mine are the same.

She kisses me this time, pouring herself into me while her hands cup my jaw. She nips my bottom lip, pulling it with a sassy smile that makes me even harder. She’s fucking gorgeous. How does this whole fucking town—no, the whole fucking world—not know that she’s the most beautiful woman to exist?

Fuck, I don’t want them to know. I want it to be my little secret. I want to be the only man who knows what Hope looks like when she gives in to herself, surrendering to her desires and flying freely. This new confidence filling her is private, meant only for us, and like a greedy asshole, I want it all for myself.

She explores me, eventually working her way back to my neck. I groan at the feeling of her little teeth gently biting down, encouraging her. “Fuuuck, Hope.” I knead her ass, hoping small, pink circles of my fingerprints will be there—a hidden mark just for us so she doesn’t think this was a dream.

One of her hands is in my hair, the other on my chest like she’s holding me in place as her hips shift, grinding us together. She’s driving me fucking crazy, and all I can do is let her because if I release even the slightest bit of grip on my nearly shredded restraint, I’m going to rip our clothes out of the way and fill her the way we both want. I bet she’d feel like liquid velvet wrapped around me.

She sucks at the tender flesh over my pulse gently at first, and then harder, interspersing with nibbles and kisses. I don’t know if there will be a physical mark anyone else can see, but I will know it’s there. More importantly, she will know.

Her mouth returns to mine, and like we can both sense we’re reaching a point of no return, the kiss is sensual, gradually going softer and less insistent. “Ben ...,” she says quietly, her forehead pressed to mine. She’s warning me off, testing to see if I’m going to hold true to my word.

“I know.” Cupping her cheek, I whisper in her ear, “You are amazing, Hope Barlowe.”

When I release her, meeting her eyes once more, her smile is slow, like she’s surprised at my reaction and not sure it’s authentic. “Yeah?” she asks.

“Chaos in a bottle, going wild beneath the lights. Prettiest train wreck I’ve ever seen, covered in your glittery midnight,” I recite reverently, tracing my fingertip over her thigh. Even through jeans, the feeling of her body beneath my touch is addictive.

I don’t know why I do it. I don’t share lyrics with anyone but Sean, but I want her to hear what I was writing today. I’ve nearly got the song finished, and I think we can get away with calling it “Hope” since it’s a word, as well as a name.

“That’s beautiful. Is it ... about me?”

She has no idea. As if it could be about anyone else.