Chapter Ten — Marissa
I'm a bit nervous about going over to Ben's condo. Okay, that's a lie: I'm incredibly nervous about going over to Ben's place. I know I probably shouldn't have agreed to this in the first place, but he'd sounded so...pitiful over the phone. And I had to figure that he was pretty upset about missing the rest of the season. The last thing he wanted at the moment, I was sure, was to hang out with the guys from the team, knowing that he wouldn't be lacing up to join them for practices or packing up for away games any time soon.
I nervously buzz his penthouse, glancing around to see if there are any paparazzi lingering around. Fortunately, the coast appears to be clear.
When I enter Ben's open studio space, he's lounging on the couch, shirtless. I can't help but swallow hard at the picture that he presents, there in the designer apartment—like some modern-day Adonis. He smiles sweetly at me, and I wonder if he realizes that I can clearly see his...nether regions up the leg of his flimsy gym shorts.
He probably does. He's hot, and he flaunts it.
I'm helpless to fight the shiver—of excitement or nervousness?—that runs up my spine at the sight. I know I shouldn't be here, but it's too late for that now.
“I brought beer,” I tell him lamely, holding up the bag. “And pizza.”
“Oh my god,” Ben says, his eyes widening comically. “I haven't had pizza in forever.”
“Oh shit,” I say, taken aback. “I probably should have asked what you were allowed to have on your diet. I wasn't thinking. I can-”
“I'm out for the rest of the season,” Ben interrupts, his face flipping through a set of emotions before he carefully gets it back to neutral. “I'm sure I'll have plenty of time to work off that pizza before I'm back out on the field. Now, come here.”
I hesitantly make my way over to the couch, setting the beer and pizza gingerly down on the coffee table. Before I've even sat down on the other end of the couch, Ben is digging into the pizza and taking a huge bite. “Fuck,” he groans, his eyes slipping shut for a moment as he savors the taste—and oh, that combination of his blissed out face and the peek at his junk is getting me hot…
He opens his eyes and gives me a rueful look. “Sorry, I know it's pretty rude to talk with my mouth full,” he says, “but you can't even imagine how this feels right now.”
I smile shyly at him. “It's kind of cute, honestly,” I admit, even though I should know better.
But the devilish grin and the sex-fueled comment don't come. Instead, Ben just grins at me and takes another bite of his pizza. I reach out and help myself to a slice as well.
“I was watching a movie before you got here,” Ben tells me. “Some comedy. Do you want me to start it back at the beginning?”
“Okay,” I say. A movie is a good idea, right? No words necessary, so I can't say something stupid to embarrass myself.
Of course, I'm not counting on the fact that it's way too easy to sip down beers as we watch the movie, and it takes me way too long to notice that Ben is moving progressively closer to me on the couch each time he comes back from the bathroom—or am I moving closer to him? Whichever it is, by the time the credits roll, we're curled together, his arm slung casually around my shoulders, and I'm close enough that I can smell his aftershave.
Ben reaches out and clicks off the TV, then looks down at me. He seems almost as surprised as I am that we're this close, and I watch the way his eyes go dark with lust. I need to pull away from him—I know what's about to happen if I don't—but it's as though I'm glued there at his side.
I'm expecting Ben to lean down and kiss me. I'm expecting him to push me back on the couch, to crowd into my space and work his way along my body. I'm expecting him to treat me like just another one of his conquests. And to be honest, I'm not sure that I would stop him, given the alcohol coursing through me and the way I can't stop thinking about the fact that he's naked except for those shorts, that I have been able to see teasing and tantalizing glimpses of his manhood all night. He's not even touching me in a sexual way, but I can already feel how damp my panties are, just from wanting him.
“I should get to bed,” Ben tells me. There's something there in his eyes, but he doesn't voice whatever it is that he really wants to say.
“Let me help you,” I suggest. I stand up and offer him a hand, maneuvering myself so that I'm under his shoulder and he can lean against me. He has the crutches, of course, and he's been hobbling around on those all evening, but… Well, to be honest, I hate the idea of breaking the contact between the two of us.
It probably would be easier for him just to use the crutches, I realize as we're about halfway up the stairs, both of us teetering back and forth in a drunken tangle of limbs. I giggle and manage to right us for about two seconds until Ben goes to take the next step and sends us both careening into the wall at the side of the stairwell.
“This wasn't very well thought out,” I admit, looking up at him.
Ben grins down at me and then scoops me up over his shoulder, so that he's now using the wall as support and hopping up the stairs one foot, with me just hanging there.
“Ben!” I shriek, a bit terrified that I'm about to go face-first down the stairs. But Ben is a professional athlete, and he knows how to use his muscles. He gets us easily to the top of the stairs and sets me down gently, still grinning at me.
And somehow, I'm turned on by that momentary panic, by the rush of adrenaline, and by my mind telling me that I can trust him. It's a strange feeling to have, but it's what fuels me to surge forwards, leaning up in an attempt to capture his lips. My movements are sloppy, though, and I end up missing the mark, kissing just the very edge of his lips.
Ben's arm loops around my waist, and his other hand comes up to caress my cheek, tilting my head to the angle that he wants it at. Then, he kisses me again. There's none of the urgency that there was in my initial movement, though. Instead, the kiss is sweet, gentle, and he doesn't try any of the stunts that he had previously tried. After a moment, he pulls away, and I practically whine with the loss of contact.
“Marissa, you should go home,” he tells me, giving me the out that I would normally be looking for at this point. I wonder what's happened to the man who took what he wanted, whenever he wanted it.
I cock my head to the side. “You don't seem like the macho man right now,” I tell him.
He grimaces and looks away. “I'm starting to realize that maybe I can't just take everything that I want,” he admits. “I had a lot of time to think things over when I was in the hospital, and...” He shrugs. “It means a lot to me that you were there for me.”
I wince a little. “I was the main press member covering your-”
“That's not the only reason you were there,” Ben interrupts before I can finish. And after a moment, I nod in agreement, because it's true. Maybe they wouldn't have let me into the hospital to see him if I hadn't been the person that Mark assigned to the story. But I would have wanted to be there, either way.
“Marissa, you should go home,” he repeats. He looks a little uncertain. “If you stay, I can't promise you that I'll be able to control myself.”
“What if I don't want you to?” I ask. But I bite my lower lip. “Ben, I'm a virgin,” I admit. “But I'd kind of like for you to...”
He stares at me, his eyes gone dark with lust. “Strip down,” he says, nodding towards his room. “Spread yourself out on the bed for me.”