Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
I scowl at Maddie one more time but let Ben lead me out the door before I explode. “What the hell?” I shout. “Does everyone . . . Why would they think . . .” And finally, quieter, I ask, “Do I look pregnant?”
Ben chuckles, running his hand through his hair. “No, Hope. You look beautiful, sexy, and right this moment, a little crazy, but not pregnant.”
For a second, I’m almost offended by the crazy part, but truthfully, I kinda like that description too. I straighten my T-shirt with a jerk, standing up straighter. “That’s right. Thank you.”
“We still swimming?” he prompts.
A few minutes ago, he was anti-swimming. Now he’s raring to go. And I am too. Even if it’s to get away from rude shopworkers who think they know my business when they don’t.
The water is perfect—sun-heated, but not like swimming in bathwater with other people, because that’s gross. But Ben was right. He cannot swim. At all.
“Come out farther. You can still touch,” I say, trying to entice him. He’s in waist-deep water, the neon of his suit still visible beneath the surface, which laps at his belly button.
“Says the girl swimming like her life depends on it.”
At best, I’m paddling around lazily, but because of the look on his face, I plant my feet on the dirt below. The water reaches up to my chin, which means it’d be chest-high on Ben. “See? You can do it. Baby steps.” I hold my hands out and wiggle my fingers like I’m tempting a child to come to me. “C’mere! Just a little deeper,” I say, throwing my voice high and saccharine sweet.
“Don’t ever say that in that tone of voice again,” Ben says, seeming fully serious. But I’m catching on to that glint in his eye when he’s joking.
“Huh?” It takes me replaying my own words to hear what he’s talking about, and when I do, I splash water his way, drenching him. “Gross! I didn’t mean it like that. I meant deeper in the water.”
He grins and I realize that without me even noticing, he’s several steps closer now and water is running down his chest and over his shoulders. “I know, but dirty talk and baby talk should never be one and the same, in my book.”
“What if they are in mine?” I counter, daring him to argue with me.
I don’t have a book. And I’ve certainly never dirty-talked or baby-talked, so even if I did have one, it wouldn’t be in there. What would be? Normal things, like missionary sex three times a week, a couple of minutes of snuggling afterward, and then going about my daily business. Why do I feel like those things aren’t even included in Ben’s book? And why do I feel like maybe I’m missing out on a lot of things I’ve never considered?
“Um, so what is in your book if it’s not dirty talk or baby talk?” I venture, swimming a circle around him.
He doesn’t spin around, but rather turns his head, following my progress with dark eyes. “I didn’t say those things weren’t there. I said they’re not the same thing. You gotta use them for different purposes.”
I feel like he’s educating me, or at least coaching me, on a whole new world. When I act like I’m writing that down, storing that tidbit away on page one of my newly imagined Book of Sex-crets, he grins. But it’s not his friendly smile. No, he—and that grin—look dangerous. They make me feel . . . gooshy inside.
“Different things. Dirty talk: one thing; baby talk: another. Check. What else should I know?”
A muscle tics in his jaw. “Hope . . .”
The warning is drawn out, almost a groan, but I want to know what I’ve been missing. All of it. “Ben, tell me. Please.”
He takes a deep breath, like he’s fortifying himself, and continues, “Say what you like and don’t like. Anybody you’re with should be willing to listen because you know your body better than anyone. If he doesn’t, don’t fuck him. Explore, experiment, try new things, but only if you want to. There’s never pressure to do something you don’t want to do.” Ben slices his arms through the water, creating waves that lap at my skin, which is suddenly oversensitive and hyperaware of every sensation.
I don’t dare look away when he says, “He should recognize that he’s a lucky fucker for getting to be between your thighs, so he should worship you, making sure you come as many times and as hard as possible. And only then—when you’re hot, wet, and ready—should he fuck you. Then he should watch to see how you want it. It’s okay to like soft and sweet, face-to-face with eye contact and love-filled kisses. It’s okay to need hard and rough, your ass slamming back into his hips with your hair wrapped around his fist and his teeth on your neck. It’s better to get both when you want them, sometimes even in the same night. Or in the same session.” He’s definitely giving me his full attention right now—measuring my breathing, tracking the rising flush I can feel turning my cheeks a rosy pink, and looking at my hardened nipples through the thin fabric of my suit.