What Comes With It

Chapter 12

Adrenaline surges through my veins and pulses between my legs. I somehow pull myself together enough to change into silky pajama shorts and a matching top. I check my hair in the mirror, rub off my night cream, spritz some Tom Ford Santal Blush everywhere and dab a little behind my ears. I rush to clear the crumbs off the bed and tidy up the suite a little. There's only so much you can do in the time it takes for an elevator to go up the hotel's eight floors.

I hear Ben exchange pleasantries with my security staff. Of course he's befriended them already. I rush to the door, reminding myself to play it cool. I pause and wait for the gentle rap of his knuckles on my door.

I close my eyes. Take a deep breath. And let him in.

"Hi again," I muster.

"Hey you," he says, duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

"I can sleep on the couch or something, it's just been a long drive so I figured I'd bring my things," he quickly adds when sees me eyeing the bag.

"You DROVE?!" I want to hit him and hug him at the same time.

"Yeah, I pretty much landed, got my things, and jumped in my car. Nine hours on I-70 is not something I would recommend to anyone. I think I saw an actual tumbleweed at some point. But! I learned that Kansas isn't really flat so there's tha—" He trails off as I dive into his arms.

"I can't believe you drove to see me. That's like, super romantic," I gush into his chest. I can't help it.

"Yeah well, we can't all get a plane lined up at moment's notice," I can hear him smirking in my ear. "Besides, this moment, right here, makes it worth it," he whispers, gently stroking my hair.

The hug is lingering. This is the most we've ever really touched each other, and neither of us want to let go. His hands trail down my back. They stop where a bra band would be, but isn't. I feel my nipples tighten.

He forces himself out of the hug, holding my arms in his very big hands and lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Serena, I can't even begin to tell you all the scenarios that I dreamed of during that boring-ass drive..."

"Why don't you show me?" I tease.

"I want to. Believe me. But I also really, really want to take a shower. I smell like fast food and would like to not for ... for you," his voice thickening.

"Oh, of course, sure!" I say, hoping he can't hear the surprise and rejection in my voice. I spring to action as I guide him toward the gigantic en suite bathroom. As I'm pulling out some towels for him, I catch his reflection as he approaches me from behind.

He towers over me when I'm not wearing heels. He wraps his arm around my neck in a hug, eyes closed, breathing me in. I admire us in the mirror. We fit together perfectly.

"I'll be out in five minutes, I promise. Don't fall asleep," he utters into my hair.

We separate and he turns the shower on. I slip out of the door, not really sure what to do with myself.

I grab a glass of wine, hoping for some liquid courage. I don't really drink the day before a show, but I also don't usually romance NFL players in my room the day before a show.

Should I join him in the shower? Was that an invitation? I decide against it, because having traveled nearly every week for the last 15 years, I intimately know the feeling of wanting to scour myself of stale air and crumbs.

Should I take off my clothes? Is that what this is? Is it too presumptuous? Is it what he wants? Is it what I want? (I already know that answer.) Is it responsible? Do I care?

In the time that I've spent arguing with myself, he's already done showering. I pour him a glass of wine and try to sit sexily on the couch. I'm not sure it's successful.

A few moments later, he slides the glass partition open. He is in a towel, and only a towel.

My eyes are probably bugging out of my head when he shyly says, "I forgot to grab my clothes out of my bag."

He starts to head toward his duffel, stops for a moment, re-tucks his towel, and strides toward me.

Before I know what's happening, he leans down, grabs my face in his hands, and plants a kiss on my lips.

"Sorry, I've been wanting to do that since last night."

"Don't apologize," I murmur as I reach up to kiss him back, harder, and with purpose.

One of his hands drops to the towel to make sure it stays in place, while the other grasps my forearm and pulls me to my feet.

Our heads are pressed against each other. We're panting. Desire is thick between us, and it's not the only thing.

The towel leaves little to the imagination.