He looks crestfallen as he says, “You know me better than that, Fallon. If I had a girlfriend, I certainly wouldn’t be standing here trying to convince you to come home with me.” He studies my face for a reaction, scrolling over each of my features with desire-filled eyes. I try not to notice, but he’s pressed against me, my thigh firm between both of his legs. It’s obvious by the scorching hardness pressed against my thigh that the look in his eyes is genuine.

Feeling him like this again—his mouth dangerously close to mine—reminds me of the night I spent with him. The only night I’ve ever allowed a man to completely consume me, heart, body, and soul—and the thought of what he was able to do to me that night almost forces me to whimper.

But I’m stronger than my hormones. I have to be. I can’t go through another heartbreak like the one I’m still healing from. The wounds are still so fresh, it’s as if he’s clawing them open with his bare hands.

“Come home with me,” he whispers.

No. No, no, no, Fallon.

I shake my head back and forth with immense effort in order to ensure I don’t accidentally nod. “No, Ben. No. This past year has been the hardest year of my life. You can’t expect me to just fall back into step with you because you showed up here tonight.”

He runs the backs of his fingers across my cheekbone. “I don’t expect that, Fallon. But I do pray for it. Every night, down on my knees, to any God who will listen.”

His words feel like they penetrate the walls of my chest and all the air is let out of my lungs. I close my eyes when his breath grazes my jaw. He’s taking advantage of the privacy and my weakness and I want to punch him for it, but first I just need to know if he tastes the same. If his tongue still moves the same way. If he still touches me like it’s a privilege.

I’m being supported by a wall behind me and Ben in front of me, but still, when his hand drops to my thigh and his fingers begin slowly raking up my skirt, I feel like I’m about to crash straight to the floor. There’s so much that needs to be discussed between us, but for whatever reason, my body wants my mouth to stay shut so his hand will continue moving. I’ve missed his touch so much, and even though I’ve made the effort to go out and try to get over Ben, I’m not sure I could ever find this kind of physical connection with another person. No one makes me feel as desirable as Ben does. I’ve missed it. The way he looks at me, the way he touches me, the way he makes it feel as if my scars are an improvement rather than a flaw. It’s hard to say no to this feeling, no matter how hurt I’ve been over what transpired last year.

“Ben,” I whisper, not so much in protest as I intended for his name to sound. He buries his face against my neck and breathes me in, and I forget everything I was about to protest. My head drops back against the wall, and then his hand slides around to the back of my thigh. His fingers graze the edge of my panties and when I feel them slip just beneath the hem, my whole body shudders. I’m forced to bury my face against his shoulder and grip the back of his shirt just to keep myself upright. All he did was touch my ass and I feel like I can’t even stand upright anymore. I should be embarrassed.

He pulls back, just a little bit, so that he can glance over his shoulder. I don’t know who or what he’s looking for, but when he sees no one is behind us, he reaches to the right of me—to a door. He pulls on the handle and it relents. Ben doesn’t waste a second. He grabs me by the waist and pushes me toward the door, into the dark room, and then the door closes behind us, muffling the sound of the music.

Now I can hear how hard I’m breathing. Panting, really. But so is he. I can hear him right in front of me, but I can’t see him. I hear him feeling around the room. It’s pitch black, and the absence of the wall behind me and him in front of me makes me feel empty.

But then his hands are back on my waist. “Storage room,” he says, pushing me until my back is to the door. “Perfect.” And then I feel his breath against my lips, followed closely by his mouth as it brushes against mine. As soon as I feel it—the surge of electricity that shoots from his mouth to every nerve in my body—I push against his chest.

“Stop,” I tell him, my voice louder than it’s been all night thanks to the distance from the music. His hand is right back where it was before . . . grazing the edge of my panties . . . forcing my eyes shut like it would even make a difference in here.

“I’m trying,” he whispers, threading the hand that isn’t up my skirt through the strands of my hair. He grips the nape of my neck. “Ask me again.”

I open my mouth to say it again, but I’m met with heat and tongue and lips that know just how to make it all work together. Instead of the word stop coming at him, all he gets is a moan and a hand in his hair, pulling, pushing, indecisive.

He pushes against me, his leg between both of mine. He’s kissing me so hard, my mind is still wrapped around all the ways his tongue can move before I even notice his hand has moved around to the front of my thigh. And I know I should stop him. I should push him away and make him explain himself, but his hand feels too good for that right now. My legs tense and I grip the sleeve of his shirt with one hand while I pull on his hair with the other hand, tearing him away from my mouth so I can breathe. I take in one deep breath before he’s back on my mouth, even hungrier than before.

And his hand. Oh, God, his fingers are slowly tracing up the front of my panties. I moan again. Twice. He puts just enough space between our mouths so that he can listen to me gasp as he slides his hand down the front of my panties.