Temporarily, of course.

“Holy shit,” Ben mutters softly, running the calloused pad of his thumb over the tattoo and staring at it intently. He lifts his head, gazing up at me. “Where did you get this?”

“Tessa. She found it at some store and bought it for me. I stuck it on when you went out to get ice. Hey, careful.”

I grab his wrist to stop him from rubbing over my flesh anymore.

It’s like he’s in some sort of a trance, his fingers moving at their own volition as he stares into my eyes.

“I don’t want it to come off yet. I only have the one.”

I bite my lip when he doesn’t say anything back, just continues looking between the tattoo and my face. His eyes unreadable.

“Do you like it?” I ask nervously. “It matches yours. Well, not the word, obviously, but it’s in the same spot.”

The same spot as my name above Ben’s hip.

I love that spot. Love pressing against it with the tips of my fingers when he’s thrusting in and out of me, or laying kisses on it when I’m teasing him with my hands. I love the way my name stands out against his skin, the three letters heavily out-lined in harsh black ink.

It’s beautiful and intimate. Best anniversary gift ever.

Ben glances up at me once more, then leans closer, so close I can feel his lashes on my skin. “This.” He kisses the word, his nickname for me. Angel. “This is so fucking sexy, baby. Jesus, you have no idea. My balls feel ready to explode just staring at you.”

My head drops back with a moan when he flicks his tongue against my flesh.

“Don’t just stare then,” I whisper urgently, sliding my fingers through his short hair and tugging on what I can. “Take me.”

He growls, standing from the water at the same time as lifting me, guiding my legs around his lean waist and cupping my ass.

Our mouths come together in a harsh, brutal kiss. The kind of kiss that leaves you dizzy and breathless, but still yearning for something else, just a little more, another taste.

An addict is born. Or in my case, an addiction is fed.

Heat, slow moving and scorching, burns under my skin and through my veins as I’m carried out into the room and lowered onto the middle of the bed.

Ben settles over me, kneeling between my legs, gathering my hands together and securing them over my head with one of his wrists. His grip is firm.

I gasp, but I don’t struggle. I know this game.

I fucking love this game.

His other hand ghosts over my body before disappearing between us. After searing my mouth with another rough kiss, Ben ducks his head and sucks on my neck, moving lower over my slippery skin until his warm breath tickles my breast.

A loud, guttural moan tears through my body when two fingers enter me, pumping in and out of my slick heat in practiced rhythm while his thumb shuffles over the smooth rise of my clit, only relenting when I tighten and swell.

It’s exquisite torture. The build, then the pull away. That beautiful battle between anticipation and fulfillment.

And Ben Kelly is a master at it.

I become delirious, thrashing about on the bed, begging for use of my hands so I can touch and stroke, so I can reach out and feel the wild pace of my lover’s heart.

“Please . . . let me. Fuck! I wanna make you come. Let me hold it. Please.”

He doesn’t release my hands, but he does remove his.

I whimper when Ben’s touch leaves me, drawing my eyes down the line of my body.

He catches my gaze, giving me the sexiest smirk I’ve ever seen him wear. Equal parts stunning and calculating. Then, holding my eyes captive, making sure I’m watching his every move, he takes the two fingers he had inside my pussy and uses them to rub my own arousal onto my left nipple. Then my right.

My skin glistens.

“Ben!”

I arch off the bed when he sucks on my breasts, tasting the skin there before moving lower.

My hands are freed.

He trails kisses over my ribs and my stomach, my hips and the tattoo, where he lingers, whispering his love for me. His hands push my legs higher as he spreads his beautiful body between them, dropping my knees over his thick shoulders and leaning in.

“You want this?” he asks, dragging his tongue sluggishly over my clit.

I answer with a moan, closing my eyes and guiding his hands to my breasts again.

The pleasure is unbelievable, the way he makes love to me with his mouth, going from slow and soft to a man unrestrained, fingers digging into flesh and pace hurried.

Hungry.

One orgasm isn’t enough. Over and over I cry out as my muscles tighten in ecstasy, as the skin between my legs grows tender from his perfected assault.

I claw at his arms, his shoulders, tugging him up my body when I need my next release to happen with his.

Reaching between us, I position him at my entrance and latch onto his mouth.

He drives forward, swallowing my moans and the quiet pleas from my lips, the ones I always say when he’s moving inside me.

More and please and harder and don’t stop.

“Never,” he tells me, flexing his arms on either side of my head as he bottoms out again and again, as he gives me all of his love and his life.

Sweat replaces water, beads of perspiration building on our skin as we taste and touch and take, giving it up again and again. On my knees, in his arms, up against the wall beside the bed. Ben pounds into me or I grind against him, pushing back, always matching his desire with equal desperation.

Heart for heart. Soul for soul. I am his, and he is mine, in this life and the next.