Part 42 (1/2)
”Sure it is. You're way better looking than Laura Ingalls, but those freckles complement the whole pick-up-truck-driving, farm-girl package. I love it.”
”Oh G.o.d.” I blush.
”Now turn over, girl, and get on your stomach.” He grabs the ice pack and a paper towel off the bed and holds it up. ”We got some icing to do.”
I turn on my stomach and he lifts my s.h.i.+rt. Expecting to feel the cold ice on my lower back, I'm more than pleasantly surprised. After he tugs down my waistband, his fingers sweep gently across my lower back. He doesn't press, he just lightly circles the entire area with his fingertips.
”Oh my,” I end up muttering involuntarily.
That's when I feel him s.h.i.+ft. My eyes are closed, but behind me, I feel him straddle my legs, and now both his hands are circling my lower back. This feels much better than an ice pack.
His fingers continue for several more minutes before he moves to my side and replaces them with the towel-covered ice.
”Ohhh,” I groan, missing his touch already.
I feel him move again, so I open my eyes. He's lying next to me. ”I had to stop, half-pint, before my hands went places they shouldn't.”
Oh, they should. They should. But I don't say that out loud. ”Thank you,” I whisper. ”That felt so good.”
He stares at me intently. ”You feel so good.” His fingers once again find my skin, but this time it's the ear he grazes when he tucks my hair behind it. ”You are the prettiest girl I ever did see.”
”Spoken like a true country boy.”
”I'm trying, half-pint.”
”Don't change for me. I don't care if you're a country boy or city boy...or suburban boy...as long as you're here next to me.”
His middle finger traces the outline of the left side of my face, from my temple to my jaw. ”Always.” He moves closer until our foreheads and noses are touching each other. ”I love you.”
”I love you.”
I don't know how long we remain in that position, but it's not long enough. Eventually, our stomachs gurgle and our hunger for food takes precedence. I change my clothes, put on my leg, and we go to Ben's so he can change. The rest of Sunday, we spend together...eating, laughing, and cuddling. And kissing. We definitely did some kissing.
Then Ben spends the night again. This time in my bed. ”You sure, half-pint?”
”Yeah. I'm sure.”
I stay in my flannels. I'd like to sleep in something s.e.xier, but then he'd see more of my scar. What if it's a major turn-off?
He climbs into bed fully-clothed.
”You don't have to do that, you know. I'm sure it's uncomfortable sleeping in your jeans. For the second night in a row.”
”You sure?”
”I'm sure.”
He gets out of bed, slips out of his jeans, and pulls off his tee, and I'm not surprised by my body's reaction to seeing his ripped abs and muscular legs. That's when I realize I better get over my body's flaws, because I'm not going to be able to keep it from Ben's for much longer.
When Ben gets back in bed, he stretches out his arm for me to curl into, and I rest my head between his shoulder and his neck. I wake up in the exact same position in the morning.
”Morning, sweetheart.”
”Morning, Benito.”
”Benito?” He rolls on top of me, tucking my arms to my sides. ”Do not call me Benito. I hate that name.”
I giggle. I never giggle. ”Why?”
”Ugh. It makes me sound like some Italian greaser from the fifties. No. I'm not that guy.”
”But your mother calls you that.”
”Yeah. I hate it when she does. I've been trying to get her to call me Ben since I was five. The closest she gets is Benny.”
”You're cute when you're embarra.s.sed.”
He kisses me then hops out of bed. ”I better get going. I have cla.s.s at nine. I'm not so sure it's so important to go, but I should at least tell the teacher what's going on.” He says this all while getting his clothes back on.
I sit up in bed and watch him the whole time. He's G.o.d-awful handsome.
”What are your plans today?”
I shrug. ”I may call Professor Sherman and take her up on her offer.”
He sits on the bed. ”You're gonna dance?”
”Should I not?”
”No, Rose, you should. Especially if that's what you want.”
”Maybe.”
Ben kisses me on the lips, then says, ”Text me when you're done. I'll bring dinner.”
”Okay.”
I meet Professor Sherman, Lindsay, at the gym at eleven. My dancing leg feels lighter, but since the ankle is more flexible, walking in it for any length of time requires me to use my cane. At least until I get used to it. But it was so expensive for my parents to have made that I'm afraid of breaking it somehow, so I don't wear it for everyday use.
”Rose,” Lindsay calls when she sees me. ”I am so glad you decided to come,” she says when she reaches me. She walks me into the studio and right away turns on the lights. Then she proceeds to put a CD in the stereo and turns it on.
”What shoes did you bring?” she asks.
”All four.”