Page 84 of Unbound

He’s hard as I grasp him beneath his sweats—and proportional to the size of his body. My stomach flips in anticipation and worry, but I continue, working him with one hand as I pull down his sweats and boxers just to expose him to me. Big and heavy, hot in my hand.

I spot his white-knuckle grip on the bed on either side of me, and roll my tongue to wet my lips before placing my mouth over just the tip of him.

A moan works from Bennett’s throat, and he presses a hand to my shoulder. To . . . stop me? I pull back but keep my mouth mostly on him as I blink up at him.

He looks . . . almost in pain. No part of him seems relaxed or like he’s feeling any sort of pleasure. My stomach plummets, ice searing through my veins as I pull up and off him, falling back on my butt in my haste.

“Is this . . . is it too much?” I ask, my voice small. “Or is it me?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Where my skin is likely ashen pale, Bennett’s face is flaming red—not so much an embarrassed flush, but like an indication of pressure building up. Like everything inside him is too much, too overwhelming, and has nowhere to go. He won’t look at me, his eyes fixed on the carpet between us, his hands covering his lap where he’s hastily pulled up his sweatpants. As if he’s shielding himself.

“It’s—it’s too much, I think,” he admits, voice flat, eyes closing tightly.

A pang throbs in my chest, rejection sliding through my soft shield easily. I stay quiet, shrinking down and hugging my knees to my chest.

The weight of the silence between us is nearly unbearable. But my thoughts feel messy and harmful, half tossed into the past, and nothing will come out. I can’t soothe him when I feel like this, the sting of his words and movement still fresh.

The sound of dark, taunting voices threatens in my head.

Finally, Bennett exhales a sharp breath and sits up straighter, his hands moving to grab tightly at his thighs. “It’s not you,” he says, his voice rough, almost defensive. “You’re perfect. I—I just . . . I can’t.”

It’s as if he’s scraping my skin with the knife of his words. I flinch and nod.

“I haven’t done this before,” he says, the words harsh, like they’ve been pulled from him against his will.

My body settles. I’d entertained the thought that he might be inexperienced, but pushed it away—mostly because he’s a collegiate hockey player. I made a stupid assumption and stuck to it, even in the face of glaring obvious hints. So his admission doesn’t shock me.

If anything, it soothes me.

Bennett rubs the back of his neck with one hand, shoulders twitching up like they sometimes do when he’s anxious. His face somehow burns even brighter. “Like . . . anything like this,” he adds, the words tumbling out faster now, in a rush to rip the bandage off. “I don’t know how to explain it right but . . . I’ve never wanted to do that with anyone before. And I don’t know why. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but—” His voice cracks, and he stops, clenching his jaw so hard it looks painful.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” I whisper, wanting desperately to reach for him but knowing that until he can look at me, see me coming, I won’t risk it.

“It doesn’t feel like that,” he says, the words almost mocking. “It feels like something is wrong with me. And . . . I’ve been okay with that.” He nods, eyes squeezing closed again. Another twitch, his hands gripping his thighs harder. “But with you . . . it’s different.”

“That’s okay,” I whisper.

“It’s not.” This time the words are harsher, but all that anger is only directed inward. “And now you’re stuck with an eighteen-year-old virgin who doesn’t know what he’s doing, and . . .”

His words hang in the air, sharp and self-conscious, and I can feel his embarrassment radiating off him. Like our conversations in the locker room or on Seven’s walks, I stay quiet, allowing him to explain.

It’s my only way of showing how desperately I want to know every part of him, deeply. Intimately.

“And that’s not fair to you, Paloma. I want to make you feel good and I don’t know how or where to even begin. And when you touched me just now? I felt so terrified of how good it felt that I stopped you? How pathetic is—”

“Stop it,” I cut him off, fierce and protective. My hands are tight as I grasp his wrists, still kneeling on the floor beneath him. He finally looks at me, his beautiful ocean-blue eyes bloodshot and full up with self-hatred. It makes me almost seasick.

He’s terrified of this.

“It’s okay,” I whisper. He grimaces and starts to jerk away from my hands. “You’re not any different for that, okay?”

His lips part, but no words come out as he stares and stares at me. Finally, his hands relax from their white-knuckle grip, one drifting to sift his fingers through my hair—an act I know now calms him.

“You’re not . . . ?” The question is nearly unspoken with how quiet he whispers it. “It doesn’t bother you?”

“Never,” I say, my throat tight. My hands slip off his wrists and onto his thighs. “We don’t have to do anything, Bennett. But if you ever want to try—”