Chapter 6: The Fall
The rough texture of the bandage scraped against the shocking softness of Ben’s skin as he pressed her trapped hand down, forcing her trembling fingers to close around the thick, rigid length of him. Heat radiated through the thin cotton of his sweatpants, so intense it felt like touching sun-warmed stone. A strangled sound caught in Ella’s throat.
"Stroke it," Ben commanded, his voice a low, guttural rasp that vibrated in the charged air between them. His grip on her wrist tightened, an immovable vise dictating the angle, the pressure. His hips jerked forward, a small, involuntary thrust that pushed his hard length more firmly into her clumsy grasp. She could feel every ridge, every pulse beneath the fabric, the sheer impossible life of him.
Her fingers spasmed, trying to recoil, but Ben held them fast. "That's it," he breathed, watching her face with predatory intensity. The lamplight caught the sheen of sweat starting to form at his temples, the taut lines of his abdomen. "Stop thinking. Just feel it." Another slow, deliberate roll of his hips against her trapped hand. The friction made a rough, soft sound against the cotton. "You feel how hard you made me? Just lookin’ at you."
Her face burned. Shame warred with a terrifying, unwelcome throb deep within her own body. The slick heat she’d felt earlier – pre-cum, a clinical part of her mind supplied, the part that felt detached, floating above the horror – seemed to seep through the fabric now, coating her bandaged palm beneath the pressure. It was obscene. Shamelessly, terrifyingly alive. She’d never touched anyone like this. Never felt anything so potent, so demanding.
"Ben, please…" The plea was a whisper, raw and broken. James’s voice called again, closer now, tinged with irritation. "Ella? Did you fall off the planet? Where are you with those bandaids?" The sound of the living room TV abruptly cut off.
Ben’s chuckle was dark, intimate. His free hand tangled roughly in her hair again, not pulling, just holding her head tilted back, forcing her to meet his gaze. "He’s impatient," he murmured, his thumb brushing her cheekbone, a mockery of tenderness. "Always was." His eyes dropped to where her hand was still clenched around him, hidden by fabric but utterly present. "Faster," he instructed, the word clipped. He moved her wrist for her, demonstrating a short, tight stroke. The worn cotton slid roughly against her palm. "Don’t want him finding you like this, do you? On your knees? Hands full?"
The image slammed into her: James opening the door, seeing her like this. Humiliation warred with a reckless surge of adrenaline. Her free hand, the unbandaged one, flew up instinctively, pressing flat against his lower abdomen, trying to push him back, create space. Her knuckles brushed the low-slung waistband of his sweats. His skin was hot silk over iron.
The contact seemed to ignite him. A low groan rumbled deep in his chest. His hand tightened painfully in her hair. "Yeah," he growled, his breath hitching. His hips began a slow, relentless rhythm against the cage of her hands – one bandaged and captive around his erection, the other pushing futilely at his stomach. "Use both hands. Show me how bad you want it."
The command, the sheer control he exerted, was a violation. But the heat, the building tension coiling in his body beneath her touch, the slickness on her bandaged palm… it was a dark, undeniable force. Her frantic push became less resistance, more a bracing against the overwhelming sensation. Her breathing came in sharp, shallow gasps. She could smell the salt of his skin, the pine-and-leather scent of the room, the faint, sharp tang of her own fear… and something else. Something heady and primal emanating from him.
"Look at me," he demanded. Reluctantly, her eyes, wide and swimming with unshed tears, flicked up to his. The triumph there was scorching. "See what you do? Just by existing? Just by pretending you don't want it?" His thrusts became sharper, more urgent, guided by her trapped hand. The friction was becoming audible now, a soft, rhythmic rasp. "That bandage feels rough, Ella," he murmured, a dark thrill in his voice. "Do it like you mean it."
The world narrowed to the heat under her hands, the pressure in her palm, the rough slide of fabric, the frantic hammering of her own heart against her ribs. James called again, his voice sharp with annoyance now, right outside the door. "Ella? Are you in Ben's room? What the hell?"
Panic, cold and absolute, sliced through the suffocating haze of sensation. Ella froze. Ben hissed through gritted teeth, his rhythm faltering only for a second. "Don't you dare stop," he warned, his voice thick with strain. He forced her hand to move again.
The door handle rattled.
"Ben? Ella?" James's voice was right there, separated only by the wood.
Ben's head snapped towards the door, his grip on her hair and wrist tightening to the point of pain. His eyes, when they snapped back to hers, blazed with fury and unspent need. "Finish it," he mouthed silently, his expression savage.
His body was coiled, vibrating with tension, the muscles in his abdomen standing out like cords. The slick heat on Ella's bandaged palm felt like a brand. She squeezed her eyes shut, a whimper escaping as she instinctively obeyed the brutal command of his grip, her hand moving in a clumsy, desperate stroke.
A violent tremor ripped through Ben. A stifled groan tore from his throat, raw and ragged. He went utterly still, his entire massive frame taut as a drawn bowstring for one endless, suspended second. Ella felt the powerful throb beneath her trapped fingers, a hot, insistent pulse against the rough bandage and the sweat-dampened cotton.
Then, the doorknob turned.