Page 53 of The Devil You Know

“Jesus,” he whispers against my neck. “I’m so impressed with myself right now.”

I laugh, still trying to catch my breath. “Only you would claim to be impressed with yourself immediately after sex.”

He ties off the condom, then pulls me against him. “I barely survived that thing you did with the back of your throat. Let’s give credit where it’s due.”

I settle on his shoulder. It should be awkward, cuddling with Ben Tate, my enemy. Weirdly, it isn’t.

He runs his palm over my bare hip. “So tell me something. How long have you been in this apartment?”

I narrow my eyes. I can already tell where this is going. “Three years.”

“And in three years you haven’t had a single spare weekend to—I don’t know—hang a picture on the wall?”

“Oh, and because I’m female I’m supposed to care about things like that?”

“No, but you seem like the kind of person who’d have…I don’t know, a Pinterest page devoted to decor?”

“You clearly don’t know me very well.”

His mouth curves into a half smile, as if he knows me better than I think.

I wake before my alarm in the morning. Ben is sound asleep beside me, dead to the world. I let my gaze drift over his lovely profile—the strong nose, the long lashes, the full mouth, serene in sleep. I consider waking him up the way he woke me in the middle of the night—pushing my thighs apart, his stubble against my softest skin, his tongue hot and warm and unhurried, saying, “I couldn’t wait anymore”—but it’s easier, less awkward, if I don’t. I’ll shower, leave him a note, ask him to lock up.

I’m being considerate, but Ben doesn’t appear to think so when he walks into the bathroom a few minutes later.

“You weren’t planning to shower and sneak off to work, were you?” he asks as he slides the glass door open. His eyes travel over me. I hold the loofah in the center of my chest, as if it’s a shield. I have no idea how to play this now that he’s shot my plan to shit.

“I was just trying to let you rest,” I reply, which is a fucking lie and we both know it. I was avoiding him, plain and simple.

He decides not to argue with me as he steps into the shower. “You said my name in your sleep. I was going down on you, and you weren’t even awake yet and you said, ‘Ben’, all breathy.”

“I probably would have said ‘oh, Chris Hemsworth’ but it’s such a mouthful,” I reply, pouring body gel on the loofah.

“Is it so hard to admit you sort of like me?” He runs a hand over my hip, asking me to pay attention.

“Do you really need me to admit it when we just had sex repeatedly?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I sort of do.”

I can’t entirely meet his eye. I’ve been here before, with someone asking me to open up, to be vulnerable. It was hard then, but it’s harder now. Every time you gamble and lose, it gets a little scarier to try again.

He steps closer. Every bone in my body wants to make a joke right now, keep this light. But then maybe I’ll be the one wounding him, and I don’t want that either.

“On Mondays and Wednesdays, you go to the taco truck,” I tell him, staring at the floor as I speak, divulging what feels like a shameful secret. “On Tuesdays and Thursdays, you get a wrap from the gym.”

I can’t tell him about driving past his house, or all the time I’ve spent on Drew Bailey’s feed looking for photos of him. I feel exposed enough already. Too exposed. I swear to God if he makes fun of me for this it’s over and I’ll never speak to him again.

His hand comes up, curving around the corner of my jaw, pulling my gaze to his, our mouths inches apart. “You drink two cups of coffee every morning, always with milk, not cream, and a ridiculous amount of sugar. You’ll eat an acai bowl at any hour of the day, and you’re the only person alive who prefers strawberries to donuts, which is why I’ve been buying them for staff meetings for the past year.”

I stare at him, asking myself how he knows all this, how long he’s been watching me this carefully, and realizing the answer almost at the same time:

Always. He’s always watched me, always documented my every move. I assumed it was for nefarious purposes, that he was looking for a crack in my armor or a moment of weakness, but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he watched me for the same reason I watched him.

Because he enjoyed it.

He leans forward and his hand curves around my neck as he presses his lips to mine.

It could be a really sweet moment, or it could be a story I later see was full of red flags.