Make Me Bad (Page 36)

With that, he walks out the door.

My heart drops.

“Hey, wait! Where are you going!? Did we just break up?”

He laughs and shakes his head, continuing down the stairs. “I’m going to the hardware store. It should still be open for a few more minutes. Also, no, we didn’t break up, but I would like to take this opportunity to ask you to be my girlfriend.”

He’s back on the ground now, looking up at me. Bugs the size of my fist swirl near the light at my head, but they cannot ruin this moment.

“Okay. Great.” I shrug. “That’d be fine. I guess.”

He smiles smugly and then turns to head for his SUV.

Thank God he left because I definitely need a few minutes to compose myself.

GIRLFRIEND.

GIRLFRIEND!

I step back into my apartment and my gaze leaps from one inanimate object to the next. None of them seem all that excited for me except for the snazzy gold lamp. Lamp is excited for me.

“Girlfriend,” I say to it in disbelief.

About an hour later, I’ve settled into my new role in Ben’s life very well. While he was gone, I reenacted some very lifelike scenarios in my head. What’s that? Oh yes, I am Ben’s girlfriend. Thanks for asking. Oh, sorry, I can’t come to your party tonight because my boyfriend, Ben, wants to have sex with me.

It’s probably good he can’t read my thoughts.

Now, I’m heating us up a Cup of Noodles and he’s drilling through my door, adding a deadbolt. He ran to the hardware store and then to his house to get some tools. He changed out of his suit. He’s Ben Rosenberg, trusty contractor, and his flannel shirt and jeans are making it difficult to get the noodles to my mouth without some major spillage.

I sit crisscross nearby, watching him work. “Did you happen to ask Mrs. Allen if this was okay before you started doing construction on her property?”

He aims a pointed brow in my direction and keeps right on working. “First of all, it’s a door—I’ll buy her a new one if she has a problem with it. Second of all, this is about your safety. She should be glad I’m doing this.”

I smile. “Plus, isn’t it better to ask for forgiveness than permission?”

He smirks. “Spoken like the true bad girl you’ve always wanted to be.”

I laugh and shake my head. “Oh god, can we please forget that whole thing ever happened? It was silly.”

He pauses and glances down at me, studying my features. “Was it? Seems like a lot of things have happened in your life in the last two months, things you might not have had the courage to take on if you hadn’t set that goal, silly or not.”

I stir my noodles. “True. I finally stood up to my dad and laid down the law. I told him I wanted him and Colten to give me room to grow. He didn’t even protest when I asked to move out—did I tell you that? I was really relieved. And now, I have these snazzy new digs, not to mention”—I tilt my Cup of Noodles in his direction—“you.”

He opens his mouth for a bite and I oblige, grinning like a fool.

“It’s like I’ve evolved into my final form: a big, bad butterfly.”

He chuckles and returns to his work. I watch him change the drill bit on his power tool and my heart thunders in my chest.

I have to keep talking to distract myself from the overwhelming urge I have to tackle him to the ground and force him to continue what we started earlier.

“So, does being your girlfriend come with any perks?”

He sends me a smoldering glare over his shoulder. “What do you mean? Outside of the bedroom?”

Oh Jesus, I am going to die.

I clear my throat and look anywhere but at him. “No, I mean, like…you’re Ben Rosenberg—surely dating you comes with free admission to amusement parks, float privileges in the Fourth of July parade, etc.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I just want to know if I get some kind of airline miles or rewards points when I dine out at the restaurants your family owns.”

“So it’s true, you’re only dating me for the power and privilege it provides?”

I shrug and add a little frown for emphasis. “’Fraid so.”

Then, I hold up another bite of noodles and he accepts eagerly, fully aware that I’m kidding.

A few minutes later, he’s all done installing the deadbolt. He stands and brushes his jeans off then leans down to help me up too.

“How did you learn how to do this stuff?”

“My dad and I would do little things around the house when I was growing up. The old Victorian homes around here need a lot of upkeep.”

I test out the lock and it slides perfectly into place. We’re both locked in here. My evil plan has worked. I twist around and aim a pretty smile his way. If I knew how to bat my lashes without looking like an idiot, I would.

“Stay the night?”

He laughs as he heads to the bathroom sink to wash his hands. “You’re kidding. That futon is barely big enough for you. I have work in the morning. I need actual sleep.”

I try not to let his rejection go to heart. He’s not turning me down, he’s just saying no to my slightly underwhelming abode.

“Besides, I’m trying to force you to see reason and come stay with me. I have a king-sized bed, two guest rooms, a really comfortable couch—all of those are better options than that futon.”

I scrunch my nose, annoyed at myself for wanting to cave. Does sleeping on a futon in this apartment make me any more independent than if I was sleeping with him in his big, comfy bed? Ugh.

He walks out of the bathroom and finishes collecting his tools.

“If you insist on staying here for a while, I’ll see about putting up a camera outside and maybe replacing that door. The deadbolt isn’t much more secure than the previous lock. If someone wanted to, they could still just kick the door down. It’s flimsy.”

I nod and walk toward him, wrapping my arms around his middle. My ear is against his chest and I can hear his heart hammering. I close my eyes for a moment.

“Thanks for the lock and for sharing this very fancy dinner with me.”

He kisses my hair and then I lift my chin to receive a second kiss on my lips. We both keep it short and chaste, but there’s an underlying hunger that nearly splits me in two. I wish he were staying the night.

He groans, runs a hand through his hair, and then makes his way to the door. I shoo him out with plans to see him tomorrow and then steal one last quick kiss. I close the door and lock it behind him.

This sucks.

For some inane reason, I want to cry.

I have to listen to his feet carry him down the stairs, his car’s engine rev to life, his tires kicking up gravel as he drives away, and then…his car pulling back up to my apartment, engine dying, car door slamming, feet thundering up the stairs. I undo the lock and he’s there, laughing and kicking the door closed behind him.

“I guess one night won’t kill me, right?” he asks, wrapping an arm around my waist and lifting me up off the floor.

Oh my god, I’m going to attack him. My arms are around his neck and I’m kissing his jaw, his forehead, the sharp edge of his cheekbone.

My mouth finally finds his, and it’s just like before, in the storage room. We’re so anxious and starved, we’re not so much kissing as we are consuming. His tongue sweeps into my mouth and I moan, tilting my head, somehow still wanting more.

My feet dangle above the ground as he carries me deeper into the room.

The backs of my legs hit the card table and he sets me on top, not realizing my weight will throw it off balance. It’s made to hold five pounds, tops. One of the legs creaks and then gives out. I go crashing to the floor right along with it and I’m laughing so hard, tears gather in my eyes.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he murmurs, trying hard to fight off his own laughter.

He lifts me back up and kisses the smile off my face.

“My butt hurts,” I groan.

He reaches down under the guise of soothing it, but his touch is hot, needy. He fists my dress and tugs it up. My hips roll against his jeans and I feel how hard he is. I can’t do it any longer. Twenty-five years of going without is too damn long.

“Please please please tell me you have a condom.”

“I grabbed one when I went to my house earlier.”

“Oh my god, yes.” I nearly say I love you jokingly, but I stifle the urge—mostly because at this point, it’s not a joke.

It’s so fitting that my first time will be on an old dingy futon. I don’t want calm, quiet sex on a perfectly made bed with a lamp on across the room for soothing ambient light. In here, we’re a mess. The gold lamp gets knocked over as I tug Ben toward the futon. It clatters to the ground right along with the card table, and I’m not fully convinced the rickety excuse for a couch-slash-bed will make it through this either.

There’s a good chance we’ll end up on the floor. I’ll be picking shag carpet fibers out of my hair for days.

“Let’s slow down,” Ben says, yanking my sweater dress over my head and throwing it across the room. In the process, he nearly dislocates my shoulder.

I shudder and nod. “Yes, jeez, let’s take a breath and relax.” Then I yank his shirt apart and one of the buttons flies off and pings against the wall.