Chapter 8: The Temptation
The rhythmic slap of skin on skin pulsed through the wood grain, vibrating against Ella’s ear pressed desperately to Ben’s bedroom door. Each muffled thud echoed the frantic hammering of her own heart. The scent of old paperbacks and that damn pine-and-leather cologne hung thick in the hallway air, mixing with the faint, sour tang of spilled beer from the living room. James was out cold on the worn couch, snoring softly, one arm dangling towards the pizza box littered with crusts.
Ella hadn't meant to linger. She’d just been clearing plates, the clatter too loud in the sudden quiet after James finally succumbed. The sound from Ben’s room had snagged her like a fishhook. A low groan, guttural and private, followed by that relentless, wet slap. It pulled her across the hallway as if magnetized. Her body moved while her mind screamed stop. Her bandaged hand, the one Ben had forced around him just days ago, throbbed dully beneath the gauze, a phantom echo of that impossible heat and hardness. She pressed closer, her breath shallow, her knees weak. The forbidden sound was a drug, flooding her veins with a terrifying cocktail of shame and liquid heat.
The door swung inward so fast Ella stumbled forward, catching herself on the doorframe. Her face burned crimson.
Ben stood there, silhouetted against the dim light of his room. He wasn't wearing a shirt, just low-slung grey sweatpants. Lean muscle corded his abdomen and chest, gleaming faintly with sweat. His breathing was still heavy, ragged. The predatory smirk that curled his lips wasn't amusement; it was pure, dark triumph. His eyes, dark and utterly focused, raked over her from her flushed face down to where her knuckles whitened on the doorframe.
"Eavesdropping's rude, Ella," he murmured, his voice rough, still thick with arousal. He took a deliberate step closer, invading her space. The heat radiating off him was palpable, mixed with the musk of exertion and something else, primal and unmistakable. His gaze locked onto hers, holding her frozen. "...Unless you're volunteering to join."
The words slammed into her. Join. Her mouth went dry. Her carefully constructed world – the promises to James, the vows to herself, the fragile shield of ‘goodness’ – seemed to shatter like cheap glass. All she could see was the sweat tracing the line of his collarbone, the powerful set of his shoulders, the faint damp patch low on his sweatpants. The memory of his hardness beneath her trapped hand flared, hot and vivid.
"I… I wasn’t…" she stammered, the lie dying instantly under his knowing stare. Her eyes darted past him, into the room. The dark sheets were rumpled. The laptop glowed softly on the cluttered desk. The air inside was thick, charged.
Ben chuckled, a low, dangerous sound. He leaned one forearm against the doorframe above her head, caging her in without touching her. His proximity was suffocating, intoxicating. "Sure you weren't." His gaze dropped pointedly to her lips, then lower, lingering on the rapid rise and fall of her chest beneath her thin sweater. "Heard enough to get the idea?" His free hand drifted down, fingers brushing lightly, almost idly, against the front of his sweatpants, right over the damp spot. Ella’s breath hitched. A fresh wave of heat pooled low in her belly, warring violently with the icy spike of panic.
"Ben, stop," she whispered, the plea sounding weak, unconvincing even to her own ears. Her body screamed the opposite. Every nerve ending felt hypersensitive, attuned to his heat, his scent, the sheer, overwhelming presence of him. The bandage on her hand itched fiercely, a maddening reminder.
"Why?" he breathed, leaning infinitesimally closer. His lips were inches from her ear. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin. "You came to the door. You listened. You wanted to hear." His voice dropped to a gravelly whisper. "Just like you wanted to feel it that night. Didn't you?" His gaze flicked to her bandaged hand. "Bet it’s all you’ve thought about since."
The accusation, laced with undeniable truth, stole her breath. Denial choked her. He was right. The phantom pressure, the slick heat soaking through cotton, the guttural command – Stroke it – it haunted her waking moments, invaded her dreams. Shame burned through her, but beneath it, hotter and fiercer, surged a terrifying, undeniable craving.
His hand lifted from his waistband, reaching slowly towards her face. Ella flinched, bracing for contact, but he stopped, his fingers hovering near her cheek. The near-touch was worse. It crackled in the air between them. "Tell me I'm wrong," he challenged, his dark eyes boring into hers, stripping away every pretense. "Tell me you didn't imagine it was you in here just now. Tell me you don't want to know what it feels like without the fucking bandage in the way."
A small, desperate sound escaped her throat. She couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Trapped between the solid wood at her back and the living furnace of him in front. James’s soft snores drifted from the living room, a fragile thread connecting her to a reality that felt impossibly distant. Ben’s gaze held hers, relentless, seeing everything – the fear, the shame, the raw, pulsing want she could no longer deny.
His smirk deepened, cruel and satisfied. He lowered his hand, letting it brush, feather-light, against the rapid pulse point in her neck. Ella gasped, a jolt of pure electricity shooting straight down her spine.
Ella gasped, a jolt of pure electricity shooting straight down her spine. Ben’s fingertip lingered near her frantic pulse, tracing the frantic beat without actually touching skin again. The pine-and-leather scent of him, mixed with sweat, wrapped around her like a physical force.
Her back pressed harder into the unforgiving doorframe. Across the short hallway, James shifted on the couch, letting out a low, beer-soaked snore. The sound was a distant warning bell muffled by the blood roaring in her ears. She couldn’t look away from Ben’s eyes, dark pools reflecting the dim hallway light and something infinitely more dangerous.
"Tell me," he murmured again, his voice scraping over gravel. The heat radiating from his bare chest seemed to scorch the air between them. His gaze dropped to her lips, then lower, to where her own sweater felt suddenly too tight, too thin. "Tell me what you imagined while you listened."
She couldn’t. Words were dust in her throat. Images flashed—rumpled dark sheets, the rhythmic sound, Ben moving with that coiled power. The phantom weight and heat of him beneath her bandaged hand flared back to life, igniting a fresh wave of liquid fire low in her belly. Shame warred with a hunger so sharp it felt like pain. She bit her lip hard enough to taste copper.
Ben’s smirk widened, a slow, knowing curve. He tracked the movement of her teeth on her lip. "Yeah," he breathed, leaning infinitesimally closer. "Thought so." His free hand drifted down again, not to himself this time, but towards her waist. He stopped, hovering a hair’s breadth away, the potential touch vibrating in the charged air. The rough cotton of his sweatpants brushed her trembling thigh.
Ella flinched, sucking in a breath that hitched in her chest. "Don’t," she choked out, the word barely audible. It wasn’t a command; it sounded like a plea ripped from somewhere raw and frightened.
"Why?" he countered, his whisper low and intimate despite the space he maintained. His eyes locked onto hers, stripping her defenses bare. "James is asleep. Dead to the world." He nudged his head slightly towards the living room. "And you…" His gaze swept over her face, lingering on her flushed skin and wide, panicked eyes. "You’re practically vibrating."
He tilted his head, his expression shifting from predatory to something contemplative, almost unnervingly casual. "You helped me out the other night," he said, his voice dropping even lower, becoming a rumble felt deep in her bones. That night he’d forced her bandaged hand around his hardness. "Got me going when I needed it."
The reminder sent another jolt through her, hot and shameful. Her knuckles ached beneath the gauze. His closeness felt suffocating, yet she couldn’t move. Couldn’t run.
He leaned in, his mouth skimming the shell of her ear. His warm breath sent shivers cascading over her skin. "Maybe I could repay the favour," he whispered, the words a dark caress against her sensitive skin. "I’ve been told I’m pretty good with my hands and mouth, even for a first timer like you."
The words – pretty good with my hands and mouth – hung in the thick air between them, a raw, explicit promise that scorched Ella’s skin. Ben’s gaze, dark and utterly unapologetic, held hers, waiting. She felt the phantom press of his hardness beneath her bandaged hand, the memory suddenly agonizingly vivid, warring violently with the image of James’ slack face on the couch just yards away. Her pulse hammered in her throat, a trapped bird frantic against her ribs.
The hallway light felt harsh, exposing. Ben’s scent enveloped her – pine cologne, clean sweat, something deeply, disturbingly male. His nearness was a physical weight, pressing the air from her lungs. She could feel the heat radiating from his bare chest. She looked down, anywhere but his eyes, landing on the worn grain of the wooden floorboards. Run, screamed one part of her mind. But her feet felt anchored, leaden.
His hand, rough and warm, closed unexpectedly gently around her wrist. Not forceful, like before, but an undeniable anchor. A current jolted up her arm. His thumb brushed the edge of the gauze wrapped around her palm, a silent callback to the desperate, clumsy friction of that night. "Ella," he murmured, just her name, low and resonant. It wasn’t a question, not quite a command. An invitation laced with inevitable gravity.
The sound of James snoring, a soft, oblivious rumble from the living room, sliced through the tension. It was a lifeline to the world she knew, the world she was supposed to want. The world where she was good. Where she saved herself. Ben’s thumb moved again, a slow, deliberate circle against her skin just below the bandage. It felt like a brand. Her resolve, brittle as old glass, cracked.
Without a word, without meeting his eyes again, Ella shifted her weight. Her free hand moved, finding the doorknob behind her. The cool metal shocked her overheated skin. She pushed.
The door swung closed with a soft, definitive click.
The sound severed the connection to the hallway, to the living room, to James. They were sealed in the dimness of Ben’s room now, the scent of him, the lingering musk of his interrupted pleasure, suddenly overwhelming. The only light came from the laptop screen on his cluttered desk, casting long, shifting shadows. Ella stared straight ahead, seeing the rumpled dark sheets of the king-sized bed, the outline of his discarded t-shirt on the floor. Her breath came in shallow, ragged pulls.
Slowly, deliberately, she walked the few steps to the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped slightly beneath her as she sat down, perched rigidly on the very edge. Her hands clenched in her lap, the bandaged one aching. She kept her eyes fixed on the pattern of the worn rug beside the bed, the fibres blurring. The silence in the room was immense, charged, waiting. She could feel Ben standing behind her, near the door, watching. Her entire body hummed with terrified anticipation.
The click of the door latch echoed in the sudden quiet of Ben’s dim room, sealing them together. Ella remained rigid on the edge of the mattress, staring at the geometric pattern of the worn rug until it blurred. Her knuckles, the bandaged one throbbing faintly, were white-knuckled fists in her lap. Ben’s presence behind her was a physical pressure, silent and immense, like storm clouds gathering.
She heard the soft whisper of his sweatpants against his legs as he moved. Not towards her immediately, but a slow, deliberate circling. The pine-and-leather scent intensified, mixing with the sharp, metallic tang of her own fear and something else, coppery and intimate, still hanging in the air from his earlier... activity. He stopped directly in front of her, bare feet planted wide on the rug. She kept her gaze fixed stubbornly on his knees, those defined tendons shifting as he shifted his weight. Her breath hitched, shallow and fast.
Silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by her own ragged breathing and the muffled, rhythmic snore drifting from James beyond the door. Each snore felt like a nail hammering into her conscience. Ben didn’t speak. He just stood there, radiating heat, making the small room feel airless. His stillness was more terrifying than any advance. She could feel his eyes on the top of her head, tracing the line of her neck, burning into the thin fabric of her sweater. His gaze was palpable, a brand.
His hand shot out, startlingly fast. Not towards her body, but towards her injured hand. Fingers closed around her wrist, firm but not crushing, lifting her bandaged palm towards him. Ella flinched hard, a small gasp escaping her. He ignored her reaction, his attention wholly on the gauze. His thumb rasped against the edge of the adhesive. The sound was obscenely loud. He picked at a corner, his other hand joining, peeling the white fabric back with a slow, deliberate rrrrrip.
The exposed skin of her palm felt raw, vulnerable under the dim light. The antiseptic smell from the bandage mingled unpleasantly with the room's musk. He examined the faint, healing abrasions, the memory of his hardness pressing urgently against that exact spot days ago flooding back, hot and humiliating. He traced the edge of a scab with the pad of his thumb, a feather-light touch that sent unwanted sparks up her arm. "Healing okay," he murmured, his voice low, devoid of inflection. It wasn't a question. His thumb continued its slow exploration, drifting onto the untouched skin just beyond the injury, circling the delicate inside of her wrist. Her pulse hammered wildly against his touch.
Then, without warning, he dropped to his knees.
It wasn't graceful; it was a sudden, powerful descent, like a predator pouncing. His hands clamped onto her bare thighs just above her knees, fingers digging in, yanking her forward off the edge of the mattress so sharply her backside slid onto the rug. The worn fibers scraped against her leggings. A startled yelp died in her throat as his face pressed instantly between her legs, nose nudging roughly against the seam of her jeans. The heat, the sheer presence of him there was a shockwave. Through the denim, his breath was a hot, damp brand.
His hands shoved her thighs apart wider, forcing her legs to bracket his shoulders. He nuzzled harder, inhaling deeply against the denim covering her core. The vibration of his low groan resonated through her pelvis. "Fuck, Ella," he growled, the sound muffled against her jeans. "Been thinking about this." His hands slid up her inner thighs, calloused palms rasping against the soft fabric, pushing her sweater up, bunching it around her waist. Cool air hit her exposed stomach. Panic warred with a terrifying surge of slick heat. She tried to clamp her legs shut, a feeble instinct, but his shoulders were immovable wedges.
One hand released her thigh, fingers fumbling urgently with the button of her jeans, then the zip. The metallic scritch-scritch was deafening. Before she could process, before she could gasp out a protest, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her jeans and underwear together and yanked.Down. Hard. Cool air rushed over her bare skin. She was horrifyingly exposed. The scent of her own arousal hit her nostrils, sharp and undeniable. Shame scorched her cheeks.
Ben didn't hesitate. Didn't look up. He buried his face between her thighs. His mouth, hot and wet and demanding, covered her completely. A strangled cry tore from Ella’s throat as his tongue, broad and relentless, found her clit. Not tentative, not exploratory. Possessive. Expert. He licked a long, firm stripe through her folds, gathering the slickness there. Then his lips closed over the swollen bud and sucked, hard.
Pleasure, white-hot and violent, exploded behind her eyes. She arched off the rug involuntarily, a choked sob escaping her. Her hands flew out, fingers tangling violently in his short, dark hair, not knowing whether to push him away or hold him there. He ignored her grip, his focus absolute. He sucked again, rhythmically, applying perfect, devastating pressure, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak. Her hips bucked against his mouth, a traitorous movement she couldn't control. The tension inside her coiled impossibly tight, a spring wound to breaking.
He hummed against her, the vibration adding a new, torturous layer. His tongue flicked rapidly, relentlessly, a pinpoint assault on her clit while his lips maintained their suction. The world narrowed to the intense, unbearable friction between her legs, the scrape of his stubble on her inner thighs, the wet, obscene sounds filling the room. Her breath came in ragged, desperate gasps. James’s snores were a distant, irrelevant hum. Every muscle in her body clenched, trembling on the precipice.
The orgasm hit like a sledgehammer. It ripped through her, a convulsive wave of pure, unthinking sensation that arched her back impossibly off the floor, a silent scream locked in her throat. Her fingers spasmed in his hair. Lights burst behind her eyelids. Wave after wave of intense, shuddering release crashed over her, leaving her gasping and trembling, momentarily emptied.
Ben didn’t stop. He gentled slightly, licking more slowly, lapping at her, coaxing her oversensitive flesh. But before the aftershocks had fully subsided, before she could even catch her breath, he intensified again. His mouth sealed back over her clit. His fingers, calloused and demanding, slid lower, pressing firmly against her entrance. One finger, then a second, pushed inside her, deep and unforgiving. He curled them, finding that spot, rubbing insistently while his tongue resumed its rapid, ruthless flicking.
The shock of penetration, the dual assault inside and out, reignited the fire instantly. The new sensation layered onto the lingering echoes of the first climax, overwhelming her shattered defenses. "No... Ben... stop..." she gasped, but her body betrayed her, hips lifting to meet his thrusting fingers, a fresh flood of wetness coating his hand. The pleasure built again, faster this time, sharper, inevitable. It was too much. Cruel. Unstoppable.
The second climax detonated with even more brutal force. It wasn't a wave; it was a shattering, a visceral convulsion that tore a ragged cry from her lips, muffled only by her biting down hard on her own knuckle. Her legs clamped around Ben’s head, trembling uncontrollably. Her vision whited out completely, consciousness narrowing to the devastating pulse between her legs where his mouth and fingers owned her utterly. She shuddered violently against him, the intensity bordering on pain.
As the tremors slowly, agonizingly subsided, leaving her limp and gasping on the rug, Ben slowly withdrew his fingers. He lifted his head. His lips and chin glistened wetly in the dim light from the laptop. He looked up at her, his dark eyes gleaming with a primal satisfaction. He deliberately licked his lips, tasting her release. "Twice," he stated, his voice gravelly, thick with exertion and something darker. He rested his forehead against her inner thigh, his breath hot on her oversensitive skin. "Your body doesn't lie, Ella. No matter what your mouth says."