It’s a quiet Saturday morning, when Ben slips and calls her wife.
He’s sitting across from her, his hair still a bit disheveled from sleep and falling slightly on his forehead, and he’s wearing a simple white t-shirt and a pair of dark jeans – his usual Saturday attire, which makes him look younger, more vulnerable. A tender kind of smile is tugging at his lips, as if there was nothing he loved more than watching her wolf down her breakfast.
There’s a certain softness, in this sight, that makes Rey’s heart flutter in her chest like a frightened little bird, unused as it is to this. This quiet intimacy she feels sneaking upon her every time he’s near. This gentle tenderness he seems to pour in every gesture, in every glance, in every smile. This feeling of belonging, lodging in her chest like a seed, taking roots in her heart and blossoming into a full garden.
She doesn’t know how to deal with this.
It’s all so – new. They’ve been dating for barely two months and though the word love has yet to be spoken out loud, she feels it in her bones every time she looks at him – his soft smile, his kind eyes, the tenderness of his hands, the ease by which his arms always seem to find their way around her body. Worshipfulness and devotion all distilled into a package of long legs and broad shoulders and a crooked smile that makes her feel a little silly in the best way.
“How are your waffles?” he asks, then, softly.
She smiles back at him and he beams when she does, as if her smile were the greatest gift she could ever give him.
It’s heady, this kind of reverence.
She could get used to it.
“They’re great,” she replies, taking a bite. “The greatest waffles I’ve ever had. I love this place.”
Spring is in full bloom and the little café on the corner of his street – the one where Ben took her the morning after she stayed at his place for the first time – is bathed in the golden light of the sunshine. In this warm radiance that softens the edges of the world, Ben looks almost like a dream, with his soulful eyes and dimpled smile and the constellations of moles smattered on his face. Their hands are clasped together on the wooden surface of the table, as if they had agreed, with no words, to be close.
It’s too easy, to fall into this kind of intimacy. As if they’d done this their whole lives – as if the atoms of their bodies had been made, in the heart of a star so long ago, just for them to be here, in this sunlit café, quietly eating their breakfast like every Saturday morning.
As if her life had always been like this – coming home to him, letting him spoil her rotten with his food and his love and the way he fucks her as if he adored her, and then sleeping next to him, in the safe circle of his arms, and waking up with him pressing kisses down her bare arm, telling her to get out of bed so they can go have their breakfast in the café she loves so much.
Love never came so easy to her, before.
“I was thinking–” he starts, hesitantly, taking a sip of his black coffee. A pink flush comes to dust his cheeks, but he never looks away from her, which makes her stomach feel suddenly full of butterflies, because she’s never been looked at like that. Like she matters. “My parents have this beautiful lake house in Naboo, near Varykino. Stunning place, really. We used to go there in the summer when I was a kid.”
She doesn’t follow him, but she likes the way he talks – his deep voice curling around the words, the places where his armor falls and she can glimpse pieces of him, of the child he’d been. This unapologetic vulnerability that he shows her, as if he deemed her worthy.
“Mh,” she hums around her forkful of waffle. “That sounds nice.”
“It is,” he confirms, with a nod. Then, his lips curve into a bashful smile and the pink on his cheeks deepens, blooming like a delicate flower on his pale skin. “I was thinking– now that the weather is nice, maybe next weekend we could go there? You and I? If you– if you want?”
All the words she’s ever known die on her lips, because – because he keeps looking at her like that, as if she were made of stars, as if she held all the answers in the world in the palm of her hand, and Rey has never been loved so quietly and yet so surely and she doesn’t even know if she’s worthy of it. He blushes and stutters on his words, endearing and adorable as he is, and yet he doesn’t look away from her, doesn’t let her hand go, doesn’t hide the way she affects him, and, oh, there’s a bravery in vulnerability and she’d never realized it before.
She clears her throat, suddenly overwhelmed.
“I would love that,” she tells him, but what she wants to say is, I love you.
Ben grins – his boyish grin, dimpled and so terribly earnest – and strokes the back of her hand with his thumb.
“You would?” he asks her, as if he could not quite believe it. As if he were impossible to love.
She wants to tell him he’s so fucking easy to love it’s almost scary. She’s spent her whole life building these walls and he tears them down with the touch of his fingertips, with the softest kiss to her temple, with the glimpse of his luminous smile – and she should be terrified, but how could she be, when he looks at her as if she were the radiant heart of the universe?
“Yeah,” she replies, instead, with a nod. She can’t help the small smile spreading on her lips, as if he’d tugged at some strings of her heart she’d never found a purpose for before he arrived into her life, all warm glances and gentle touches. “I don’t know how to swim, though.”
His laughter feels like sunshine, like warmth, like the inviting crackle of a fireplace. Like home.
“Don’t worry, I’ll teach you.”
She reaches for her cup of coffee – more to hide her face, flaming red at the thought of Ben, teaching her how to swim, their bodies close and clinging to each other’s in the warm waters of the lake –, but when she takes it to her lips, she finds out it’s empty.
“Oh,” she breathes out, surprised.
Ben is so quick. As if he were attuned to her every need, as if making her happy were of the utmost importance to him. When the waitress comes near their table, he stops her with a pleading look and a tentative smile.
“Hi. Could I please get a refill of coffee?” he asks her, pointing at his empty cup. Then, without being aware of the devastation he’s about to unleash on her heart, he absent-mindedly adds, “And a Latte for my wife?”
A new kind of warmth spreads in her chest, and it feels like the golden indolence of the sunshine, like a blanket, resting on her shoulders, like his arms at night, safely wrapped around her body, keeping her anchored to the moment. The word sinks into her heart – a new, timid blossom among all the flowers he’s already planted – and she’s breathless for a moment, just trying to grasp it.
The utter surety of it. The luminous image it evokes – belonging and devotion and trust, his hand in hers for the rest of their lives. A lifetime of nights with his warm body wrapped around hers, a thousand radiant mornings in his kitchen, trading soft, sleepy kisses that taste like coffee.
Oh, she finds out in this moment she wants that.
“So,” she starts once the waitress leaves. Her voice trembles and though she’s warm all over, she’s also never been happier. “Wife, uh?”
It takes him a moment to realize and when he does, oh. His eyes widen and his fair skin turns crimson red, covering all his moles and freckles and beauty marks like a delicate blanket. The flush spreads to the edge of his chest and even the tips of his ears, visible through the disheveled mess of his hair, are a vibrant shade of pink. He parts his lips, but no sound comes out of it, and though he looks mortified, he doesn’t let go of her hand.
“Oh,” he breathes out, then does the mouth thing he always does when he’s thinking about the right words to say – he works his jaw and presses his lips together, chewing slightly at his bottom lip. There’s a nervousness there, in the curve of his spine, but also a genuine eagerness, and it makes her want to lean over the table and take his beautiful, flushed face into her hands and kiss him silly. “Fuck. I didn’t mean– I mean– you– I– Fuck, I’m so sorry– obviously this is way too soon–”
“Ben,” she interrupts him, quietly. Her voice is barely above a whisper and for a moment she wonders if he’s heard her at all, but he immediately stops talking, looking at her with his warm eyes, as if he were waiting for her to pass the sentence. Instead, she smiles and strokes his hand, tracing gentle circles against his skin. “Please, don’t apologize.”
The corners of his lips tug upward into a tentative smile that takes her breath away.
“You must think I’m crazy,” he murmurs, still adorably red. He shrinks into his shoulders, the way he usually does when he’s embarrassed, as if he could disappear like this, big and broad as he is. “I won’t blame you if you’ll want to run away–”
Oh, a past version of her would. The girl she was would be terrified of these feelings blooming into her heart and she’d take her time burning these tender blossoms to the ground, pouring salt over the wounds to make sure nothing would ever grow again.
Instead, she now tugs at his hand and brings it to her lips, planting a kiss on every knuckle as if to tell him everything with no words, fully knowing he’ll understand her anyway. She lingers on his ring finger – imagines what it would be like, to brush her lips against a wedding band, the metal warm from his hand because he always seems to run a bit too hot. She’d kiss it with reverence, with devotion.
“I’m not running away,” she tells him, in the end.
Naboo, Rey finds out, is only a couple of hours away from Chandrila and Ben is awfully familiar with those old country roads he’s spent so many of his summers on, so they decide to leave on Saturday morning, right after their breakfast.
Rey’s heart feels as if it were full of a strange, savage kind of warmth, that spreads in her chest like gold. It takes her a moment to realize it’s happiness.
She stays at his place on Friday, as she usually does. He makes her dinner and kisses her against his kitchen counter, softly and tenderly, stealing the air from her lungs and pouring love on her lips. They settle onto his couch to watch a movie and he makes love to her as the credits roll – his half-naked body moving languidly above hers, his mouth never straying away from her skin, their fingers laced together and resting on her chest, on the fluttering thing her heart has become ever since he stepped into her life.
He murmurs quiet, ardent praises into her ear – telling her how beautiful she is when she lets him adore her, how lucky he’s been to have found her, how perfectly she fits into his life, as if he’d been waiting for her all this time, Rey, Rey, I can’t believe it, you’re everything, sweetheart – and holds her in his arms when she comes with a strangled sob, falling apart under his ministrations and his words alike.
It’s a slow, radiant orgasm that seems to spread through her body like a wave of light, making her toes curl, her heart thunder, her body arch off the couch. It rewrites her – as if he’d poured gold in the cracks of her soul, with the slow roll of his hips and the honey falling from his mouth.
It’s a sacred experience, to come underneath him.
“It’s alright,” he whispers as she slowly comes down from her high, panting and clutching at his shoulders as if he could suddenly disappear. His lips are pressed against her hairline and he’s cradling her face as if it were precious. “I’m here, sweetheart. I’m here.”
And oh, how did he know she needed him to tell her just that?
Her legs feel like jelly afterwards, so he carries her in his shower, eliciting a giggle from her as she twines her arms around his neck and buries her face into his shoulder. He washes her with a tenderness that feels almost holy, and then he helps her slip into an old t-shirt of his and they burrow under the covers of his bed together, his arms around her waist, her back to his chest, his hot breath against her nape.
He’s so solid, behind her. So real. Not a product of her overactive imagination, not something she dreamed for herself in the cold nights of Jakku – but flesh and bones and a beating heart that Rey can feel, in the solemn silence of his room.
“I can’t believe I found you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. She feels the warmth of his lips even through the fabric of his t-shirt. It sinks into her bloodstream, changing her bit by bit.
There isn’t a part of her body he hasn’t touched. Kissed. Loved.
He keeps telling her that – I’m so lucky to have found you, you are the best thing that ever happened to me, sweetheart –, as if it were a spell, a ritual. As if he wanted to erase every lonely day, every night spent aching and yearning for someone to see her, to love her, to hold her. And while she’s falling asleep – his deep voice lulling her toward unconsciousness, his arm around her body offering her a tether back to the world –, her hazy mind lingers on that slip from last week, the way his lips had curled around the word wife so naturally, making her warm and happy, and the way a future she’d never thought she could have suddenly opened in front of her, just a whisper away from her fingers.
Just before sleep claims her, she thinks she’d like for him to call her that again.
For the rest of their lives, possibly.
The journey to Varykino is pleasant.
Apart from the time she escaped the hellhole that Jakku was – something she doesn’t like to remember anyway, because there’s nothing nice to linger on when she thinks about Jakku –, Rey has not traveled much. She doesn’t even know if this weekend getaway to Ben’s old lake house could be considered a trip, but she likes the giddy atmosphere of it all, the way the city slowly gives way to grass fields and nature, the beauty of the sunshine slipping through the half-down windows of Ben’s car, the elated smile on his lips when he catches her gaze.
Away from the city, Ben is even softer, and yet more lively too, as if he were breathing again. He’d remembered to stop and pick her breakfast before leaving and he’d let her choose the music to put on during the journey. Now, he’s humming along to her Taylor Swift playlist, one hand on the wheel and the other intertwined with hers, resting on her thigh left bared by the flower-patterned sundress she’s wearing.
It feels – so much more meaningful than it should be, an undercurrent of emotions stirring just beneath the quiet surface of this moment. Ben seems to feel it, too, because he strokes the back of her hand with his thumb so tenderly and brings it to his lips every now and then. There’s something intimate and devastatingly domestic, in the way he kisses her palm while never taking his eyes off the road.
“I hope you’ll like it there,” he says, tentatively.
He looks so eager, almost nervous, as if her liking his lake house meant the world to him.
She lets out a giggle. “I’m sure I will,” she replies, tracing the lines of his hand with her thumb.
She likes his hands – the way they seem to dwarf hers, everytime he laces their fingers together, but also the way they touch her with something akin to reverence. For such big hands, they’re so impossibly delicate – they make her feel important, cherished. Loved.
When she raises her eyes to glance his way, though, he still looks weirdly worried, his brows furrowed together in a peculiar frown.
“Ben.” She tugs at his hand, as if to bring him back to this moment. His skin brushes against her thigh, warm and comforting and familiar. “Seriously. I’m sure I’ll love it. Why are you so worried?”
His frown melts away and his lips curve into a smile, before he shakes his head, faintly, his eyes glued to the road in front of them.
“I just thought–” He gulps, then lets out a shuddering breath and casts a tentative glance in her direction. His lips twitch in another hesitant smile. “You’ll probably think I’m rushing into things–”
She pretends to roll her eyes. “Ben.”
“Fine. I just thought we could come back, if you like it there,” he admits, blushing up to his hairline. His ears turn crimson too, an endearing detail that makes her feel as if her heart had been squeezed in a forceful grip. “I mean, not every weekend, of course, that would be impractical. Just, every now and then. Or– I thought we could spend a few weeks here in the summer. It’s stupid, I know. I’m running ahead of myself.”
A few weeks in the summer.
Her heart does something silly in her chest – it flutters, so loudly she wonders if he can hear it, this creature of warmth and hope and joy he’s made out of it. A few weeks in the summer – it’s more than a trip. It’s a plan. It’s a future – the same future she glimpsed when he called her wife, last week. The same future she never thought she could have and that now stands in front of her, bright and luminous and so full of that special kind of happiness he seems to elicit in her chest, as if he had unlocked a drawer in her heart that had been sealed up until now.
She doesn’t tell him all of that. Instead, she smiles and traces the veins of his hand with her fingertips, studying the intricate blue pattern under his translucent skin.
“Are you planning our honeymoon?” she asks, then.
Ben laughs – a quiet, bashful thing that speaks of home. “You’ll never let me live that down, aren’t you?”
“Nope,” she confirms. It feels automatic to smile, as if a sudden, radiant joy had possessed her. It tastes like intimacy. Maybe that’s why she feels brave enough to admit, “You know, I actually liked it.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then–
“You–” He gulps, his lips trembling. The sunlight gives his dark hair a faint halo, when he turns to look at her for a second, incredulous and yet still so disarmingly eager she almost feels as if his trepidation had spilled over, washing over her, too. “You did?”
She nods, looking down at their joined hands. She traces the lines of his palm with her fingers – big, gentle hands, so strong and yet so tender. Hands that are made to steady, to love, to hold. She traces the imaginary circle of a wedding band, there, on his ring finger.
“Yeah,” she breathes out. Her own cheeks feel on fire and she’s sure she’s as red as he is right now, but she pays it no mind. “It’s not like– I don’t expect you to propose tomorrow or anything, I just– I like it, the way it sounds.”
There’s a certain dreamy quality to this moment. The sunlight streaming through the windshield, the warmth of the spring day, the blur of colors rushing past them, the heady scent of flowers seeping into the confined space of his car. The heat of Ben’s body next to her, the touch of his hand against her thigh. Their fingers laced together, as easy as breathing.
“I like it too,” he admits, then, softly. His voice is low, barely above a whisper, as if he were afraid of disturbing this sacred moment. “I like– I like the idea of being your husband. Of you being my wife.”
Oh, that blessed warmth flooding her chest again, like a wave she dies to drown it, golden and luminous like a spring day. It turns her insides into a fluttering thing, the idea of Ben wanting to call her wife, his wife – her heart hammers away in frantic beats, her hands tremble and–
She has to rub her thighs together in search of relief, because the way he says it – my wife, his deep voice curling around those words, the eagerness behind it mixed with the tenderness and the adoration in the back of his gaze – makes something pool in her, low and maddening in her abdomen, and she–
She needs him.
For a moment, she wonders if he realizes, the effect he has on her.
Before she can do something silly – like guide his hand down, between her slightly parted legs, where she’s wet and ready for him, so ready, so desperate, his wife, taking everything he gives her –, she clears her throat and looks out of the window, her cheeks as red as the sea of flowers rushing in front of her.
Then, quietly, as if afraid of admitting it even to herself, she tells him, “You could call me that. If you–” She clears her throat again, her hand trembling in his. “If you want to.”
There’s another moment of silence and it feels – not quite tense, but somewhat poignant, as if it were a turning point in their relationship. Her heart hammers in her chest, a dull noise that seems to fill the confined space of his car.
Then, he brings their joined hands to his lips again and kisses her knuckles, softly. “I’d love to.”
The house sits quietly on the lake, when they finally arrive, and it looks perfectly peaceful – as if nothing had disturbed it in years except for the faint spring breeze rushing through the leaves with a rustling sound and rippling through the crystal clear water of the lake. The wisteria blossoms have taken over, climbing over the stark white façade of the building, a delicate shade of lilac that seems to reflect the bright light of the midday sun.
It looks like a dream, a secluded world for them to step into. A place where things grow, where nothing ever dries, where everything is lush and green and vibrant and where Ben wants her.
Rey adores it.
It’s difficult to put it into words, but Ben understands her anyway – as if he didn’t need words at all, as if he could read her eager, yearning soul like a piece of poetry. He helps her get out of the car and kisses her among the flowers, soft and slow as usual, planting love right in her chest and letting it grow, tending to it as if it were another vibrant flower to take care of. And then, when she’s still reeling from the kiss and recovering from the high of being loved so much, he–
He lifts her off the ground, one arm around her waist and the other secured under her knees, his hands holding her tight, reminding her he’s not going to let her fall.
She can’t help the surprised giggle that bubbles on her lips. “What are you even doing?”
Ben blushes, but doesn’t look embarrassed. Instead, he only tightens his grip on her, his hands warm and solid on her skin.
“I’m nothing if not traditional,” he replies, with that dimpled smile of his that makes her feel lightheaded and silly. “Let me carry my bride over the threshold. Please, sweetheart.”
Her heart feels like a desperate thing in her chest, thundering away under his gentle gaze.
“Alright, I suppose,” she says, her voice trembling slightly. She clears her throat, then, softly, she adds, “Take me home, husband.”
It does something to him, the idea of being called husband. She can see in the way his smile softens, in the way his eyes widen a bit. She likes to think she’s started to learn him and she can see all the emotions stirring just behind the warm brown of his irises – surprise and joy and love and devotion, all mixed into something wild and radiant that takes her breath away.
“Of course, my wife,” he murmurs and oh, not even the playfulness of his tone can conceal the ardent sort of urgency of those words. It awakens something in her, this quiet need.
She buries her face into his shoulder, hoping he can’t see the way he affects her. If he does, he doesn’t say anything about it – instead, he drops a kiss to her temple and starts to walk toward the house, his heartbeat jumping through his shirt everytime she presses a kiss to his neck.
He carries her inside, kicking the door shut with his foot, and doesn’t put her down until they reach the kitchen, with its granite countertops and its ample windows, sunlight filtering through the glass and bathing the room in a golden light. There are fresh flowers in a jar, their sweet scent lingering in the air, and she realizes he’s been here during the week to make it perfect for her.
The thought brings tears to her eyes.
He sets her down on the counter with the utmost tenderness and kisses her again, as if he could not bear to be parted from her. He steps between her legs, parting so easily for him, and his hands come to cradle her face, gently tilting it back so he can deepen the kiss, his tongue coaxing her lips open, his mouth soft and hot against hers, his body close to hers as if to envelop her in his devotion.
For a moment, she loses herself in this – this perfect house immersed in a lush, green world, the idea that this is their place, their home for this weekend, the light of the sun spilling over him, casting him in perfect radiance as he bends down to press reverent kisses to the column of her throat.
It’s enough to make her dizzy, to make her head spin. To make her ache and want and yearn.
“Ben,” she whimpers, her breath already short on her lips. She sinks her hands into his hair and sighs when he plants an open-mouthed kiss to her pulse point. “Ben, please–”
He travels down, down, down, tracing a burning path on her skin – his lips brush against the hollow of her neck, plant kisses on the delicate skin of her collarbones and follow the freckles that dot the edge of her chest, left uncovered by the low neckline of her sundress. She can’t do anything but cling to him, her fingers tugging at his hair, soft sighs falling from her lips.
She feels – cherished. As if these were more than kisses, as if he were worshipping her with no words, kneeling at her altar like a pilgrim.
He knows her body by now – he’s spent so many of their days mapping it, as if it were something sacred, something he wanted to learn it by heart, memorizing it with his fingertips and his lips – and he knows just how to kiss her to render her completely useless for anything else, her mind reduced to an incoherent string of words, moans and whimpers spilling from her lips, her hips twitching from the need to have him closer , to feel him, to be his.
“Ben,” she sighs again, tugging at his hair to catch his attention. “Ben, I need–”
He presses a kiss to her pulse point, his teeth gently scraping against her skin, and all the words die on her lips, replaced by a breathy moan. She throws her head back to grant him better access and he lavishes her neck with kisses, sucking lightly at her skin before soothing the marks he left there with his tongue and his mouth.
“So perfect,” he murmurs, trailing down again, his face buried in her chest. “So beautiful. You’re a dream, sweetheart. I can’t believe you are real.”
They’re heady, his praises – sweet and intoxicating like a fine wine, making her head spin, turning her liquid with pleasure. A fire starts to spread low in her body, steady and warm, and she whimpers and moans and clutches at his shoulders, his hair, his arms – everything she can reach, because she needs to feel him.
His hands – tender, delicate hands, made for loving, for worshipping, for adoring – travel up, tracing tortuous patterns against her sides, eliciting shivers down her spine even through the thin fabric of her dress. Then, his fingers start to undo the front buttons of her sundress and before she realizes, he’s pushing the straps down her shoulders and she’s bare from the waist up, except for her white, lacy bralette.
Ben groans at the sight.
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick with want, and yet somehow still reverent, as if he were seeing something breathtaking. “You are so beautiful, you know that?”
She shakes her head, half-delirious.
No, she doesn’t know that – she’s never been beautiful until he stepped into her life, until he started to adore her and remind her how perfect, how wonderful she is, and now she feels as if she were something ethereal and otherworldly, as delicate and precious as the wisteria blooms falling over the front porch of this house. Something beautiful, something stunning. Something he loves.
“You are,” he assures her, his voice still so impossibly tender, even in the middle of this. “So beautiful. Sometimes I’m afraid I’ve dreamed you. I can’t even imagine what I did to deserve you.”
Were this another occasion, she’d scold him for his words. She’d remind him that he’s wonderful and kind and gentle and he deserves the world, if only she could give it to him. But words seem to have lost all meaning in the past few minutes and he’s bending down to press a kiss to the outline of her breast, his hands spanning her whole ribcage, and it’s a lot harder to think about anything when he’s rolling her nipple between his fingers through the fabric of her bralette.
Instead, she tugs at his hair. “I need you,” she whimpers, desperation coloring her voice.
He raises his eyes to look at her and it’s devastating, the effect he has on her as he stands there, curved almost in half just to rain kisses down her chest, his gaze burning and adoring at the same time. She’s never seen anything more beautiful.
“I’m here, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice impossibly sweet, trailing up to press fervent kisses until he reaches her lips. “Tell me what you want.”
She tugs at his shirt. “You,” she whines. “I want you.”
Ben, considerate as always, complies. He leans in to kiss her again, one hand cupping her face, his thumb lingering against her throat, and the other resting at her hip, tracing gentle circles against her warm skin, bringing her closer, their bodies flushed together. She can feel how hard he is, even through the barrier of his jeans, and yet he makes no move to relieve himself of that tension.
The golden light of the sun shines through the giant windows of the kitchen and bathes them in radiance and she feels as if the same light were running into her blood, brushing like a caress against her spine as he kisses her, his tongue against hers, his teeth nibbling at her bottom lip.
She feels as if she were a soft, pliant thing into his arms. Something for him to adore .
“Believe it or not–” he murmurs when he breaks away, his chest rising and falling in quick breaths against hers. His lips curve into that crooked smile she loves so much when he continues, “I actually wanted to show you around the house, before I got distracted.”
A laughter explodes on her mouth and she brings him closer – this kind, wonderful, maddening man who loves her as if she were special. She kisses him again, wrapping her arms around his neck, and her need doesn’t quite abate but morphs into something different, something slow and inexorable, a steady flame burning low in her abdomen, warming her up from the inside.
“Later,” she replies against his lips, between a kiss and the other. “Please. I need you. I need–” Her cheeks heat up, when she shyly adds, “I need my husband’s cock. Please.”
Ben parts his lips as if to say something, but then he seems to think better of it, because he takes her face into his hands and kisses her again and oh, it’s reverent and urgent and needy and it takes her breath away.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he coos, so softly, making her whine. “Does my wife want her husband to make her feel good?”
She nods, half-mad already. She’s so, so needy and desperate – she wants him to make her come, she wants him to ruin her the way he only knows how to, with his love and his adoration and his devotion, looking at her as if she were the reason for the universe to turn. She wants to be his wife, safe in his arms, caged by his warm, familiar body as he rolls his hips and drives himself home over and over again, eliciting whimpers and cries from her.
He understands. Of course he does – he knows her.
“Don’t worry, darling. I’ve got you,” he murmurs, so softly. “Let’s get to the bedroom, alright? I’m going to take care of you.”
Then, his hands close around her waist and he lifts her up again with no effort, as if she weighted nothing to him. She wraps her legs around his hips, her feet dangling in the air, and kisses him again as he carries both of them in the bedroom.
It feels sacred, meaningful. She feels held.
What she’s wanted her whole life.
Ben sets her on the bed with the utmost care, as if she were something precious and important. Rey sinks into the soft sheets with a sigh and looks up at him as he hovers above her, balancing his weight on his arms as not to crush her.
The light of the sun filters through the pastel blue curtains of the bedroom and makes him look like some kind of angel, all warm eyes and crooked smile and adorable dimples. Rey has never loved someone so much – as if her heart were made for this purpose alone, an aching creature that belongs to him, now.
“I’m going to make you feel so good, sweetheart,” he murmurs, bending down to kiss her, as softly as always. “My sweet wife. I’m going to take care of you.”
A soft moan escapes her lips at that word. Wife. She feels warm and flushed red and she’s so, so wet, so ready for him and he would know if he only slipped his hand between her legs like she dies for him to–
He doesn’t, though. He crawls down her body until he’s kneeling on the floor between her legs, but instead of burying his face in her cunt, like she’d want him to, he takes one of her legs in his hand and starts to lavish it with kiss, starting from her ankle, her calf, the ticklish skin of her knee and oh–
– Oh –
– he bunches up her dress and presses a burning, fervent kiss to the inside of her thigh.
“Ben,” she sighs.
His mouth presses another kiss there, just inches away from where she needs him.
“I’m here, my love,” he tells her, and oh, isn’t that nice ? Being called love. She feels so precious and small. “It’s alright, I’m here.”
He repeats the same process for her other leg, starting at her ankle and trailing up, his mouth hot and yet so delicate against her heated skin. She arches her back and sinks her fingers into his hair, but he takes his time, worshipping her, branding praises into her skin.
“So good,” he says, his teeth nibbling at the inside of her thigh, eliciting a wrecked sound from her. “Aren’t you? So, so good. My perfect wife. So sweet and lovely and perfect for me–” One of his fingers comes to brush against her lace panties, making her keen. “So wet. Is this for me, sweetheart?”
She nods, her eyes screwed shut, her lips parted in a soundless moan.
Ben presses another kiss to her thigh, a feather-like touch that is making her delirious.
“Let me hear you, darling,” he tells her, and it feels almost as if he were begging her, this giant man, with his broad shoulders and big hands, who can undo her with the softest touch. “I love all those adorable sounds you make. Don’t hold back, sweetheart.”
She almost sobs at that.
“Ben–” Her fingers tug at his hair, almost violently. “I’m so ready for you, please, I need you, I need my husband–”
“And I’m here, darling,” he reminds her, without missing a beat. His eyes, between her legs, are warm and soft as always. “I’m here. I’ll always be here. I’m never letting you go, I promise.”
She knows they’re just words, they don’t mean anything – but it’s hard to remember it, when he’s kneeling between her thighs and looking at her like that and whispering soft promises against her skin. She almost believes him, then. That he will never let her go.
That he will stay.
He slowly, oh so slowly, hooks his finger in her panties and pulls them down with the same aching slowness that makes her writhe and beg and arch off the bed. His hands come to part her legs, his fingers gentle but firm against her thigh.
– then he puts his mouth on her, and she’s lost.
Ben loves to eat her out. She knows, because, despite all her protests and all her reminders that he doesn’t need to do this, he always sinks to his knees at every chance he gets, parting her legs with his hands and burying his face between her thighs, licking into her with an enthusiasm that makes her weak and wrecking her in the best way.
And yet, nothing could have prepared her for this.
He – he’s slow, as if he wanted to savor this moment. As if it were their wedding night and he was set on making it good for her, the best she could ever have, rewriting her body and pouring love and adoration in her soul. He licks up a long stripe along her folds and teases her clit with his tongue, and it shouldn’t be allowed, this kind of maddening torture, these touches that are barely-there, not even close to what she needs and yet enough to make her whimper and sob and tug at his hair.
“You taste so good,” he murmurs against her cunt, and the low growl of his voice makes her inner walls clench, empty and aching. “My sweet, perfect wife, with her sweet, perfect cunt.”
She trashes on the bed, letting go of his hair only to find purchase on the sheets, fisting them between her fingers as if the soft fabric in her grip could tether her to this world. Quite the impossible feat, especially when he resumes his work and starts to lick her again, so languidly she thinks she’ll go mad by the time he’ll make her come.
Her orgasm builds slowly, like a tension in her limbs, a spring ready to snap at any second. She sobs and moans and murmurs his name and he praises her at every turn, his words as soft as ever even when he’s got his face buried between her legs and she can’t do this, it shouldn’t be possible, she can’t be loved so much, so sweetly, so tenderly by someone like him, she isn’t made for this, she’s not worthy of this–
“Please, my love,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with reverence. “I need you to come. I need my sweet, wonderful wife to come.”
He takes her clit between his lips – plush, maddening lips that seems to be made for this purpose alone – and sucks and she shatters. She comes with a wail and she cries and sobs and claws at the sheets, tugs at his hair, writhes on the bed because it’s too much, no one should be allowed to feel this good, not her–
Ben is there to hold her through it, his hands solid and real, anchoring her to the world, his words a balm against her soul.
“You deserve this,” he tells her, raining kisses on her thighs. “You deserve to come. You deserve everything.”
She lets out a strangled sound, something between a sob and an hysterical laughter – a sound that quickly turns into a surprised gasp when he dives back between her legs, licking her clean, as if one orgasm wasn’t enough, as if he wanted her to keep coming and coming and coming.
She starts to lose count. Her body feels as if it didn’t belong to her anymore – as if it was just a thing for him to play with as he pleases. The lines start to blur and her mind is too hazy, too lost in the pleasure to wonder if he’s just prolonging her orgasms or if she’s coming again. She only knows she’s arching off the bed and she’s crying, or maybe laughing, or maybe both, and she’s trembling and panting and Ben is still licking at her and telling her how beautiful she is when she comes, his pretty wife, being so good for him–
“Ben,” she hears herself say, though she’s not aware of it. Her voice is hoarse, raw, as if she’d screamed. “Ben, it’s too much– I need a moment.”
Ben steps away immediately, his eyes warm and concerned and so full of love it’s almost unbearable, even in her foggy state of mind. He crawls back on the bed, hovering above her, his weight resting on one arm while his other hand brushes her hair away from her face, wipes her tears, strokes her cheeks.
She must be a mess – her sundress unbuttoned only to her waist, the flower-patterned skirt bunched up over her hips, her skin flushed hot, her cheeks stained from all the tears, her breath still labored. And yet he looks at her as if she were something beautiful, as if she were the very reason for his heart to beat in the first place.
“You did so well, sweetheart,” he murmurs, softly. She hiccups, her body still trembling from the aftershocks. “Are you alright, baby? Do you need anything?”
She feels awfully vulnerable when she mumbles, through the fog in her mind, “Hold me?”
The light of the sun bathes him in all his glory, beautiful as he is above her, and she can see the way his eyes soften even more, if that’s possible.
“Of course, darling,” he murmurs, bending down to press a kiss to her forehead, so lightly she almost can’t feel it.
Then, he carefully drops on the bed next to her, wraps his arm around her middle and brings her closer, her body safely tucked against his. Surrounded by his. Home.
They stay like this for a small eternity – his fingers running up and down her spine, his lips planting gentle kisses to her hairline, the warmth of his body enveloping her in its embrace. His voice, whispering sweet nothings against her skin.
She feels – safe. Content. Loved.
“How are you feeling?” he asks her, then, when her erratic heartbeat has finally calmed down.
Her answer is a small little laughter, almost bordering on hysterical. “Ben. I just came–” She frowns in confusion against his chest. “– well, I don’t even know how many times. We can safely assume I’m great.”
He chuckles too, pressing another kiss to the crown of her head.
“Just checking.” His hand stills at the base of her spine, his fingers warm and comforting in that special way that only Ben knows how to be, tracing absent-minded circles against her flushed skin. “You did so well. My beautiful, perfect wife. I could spend my whole lifetime making you come. Giving you everything you deserve.”
Oh, that word still makes her spine tingle, her insides flutter, her cheeks heat up. It makes her want . It makes her almost delirious with it.
Maybe that’s why she throws her leg over his waist and starts to roll her hips, just slightly, a barely perceptible thing, but enough to press herself against the hardness in his jeans. Ben groans and his grip tightens, his hand coming to rest on her hip. When she breaks away to look at his face, he looks conflicted – as if he didn’t know whether to still her or to help her move against him.
He’s flushed red, too. “We don’t have to–” he starts, hesitantly, stuttering over his words, which makes her chest feel too small to contain all the fondness she feels for this man, who can whisper the most intimate thing into her cunt, and yet be embarrassed to have desires . “I can– uh– take care of it. You don’t have to– you must be exhausted–”
She rolls her hips again, more surely, her fingers playing with the hair at the base of his neck, pulling him closer. It’s an unfortunate position, but it’s enough to grant her a bit of friction, it’s enough to make her sigh and moan, her wetness seeping into the fabric of his jeans.
“Please,” she whines, against his lips. “You promised. You said you were going to take care of me. I need my husband’s cock– I need it, Ben. Please–”
He’s so close she can feel it, the moment his cock throbs in his trousers, the moment his breath stills on his lips and comes out in a shuddering exhale. His grip on her hip tightens again and he – he helps her rock against him, slowly.
“You want your husband to make you feel good, uh?” he asks, then, leaning in, his lips a whisper away from hers. She nods, eagerly, rocking against his clothed cock. “You are right, baby. I promised. My wife deserves to come as many times as she wants.”
Her eyes roll back, her body going completely limp into his arms as he slowly rolls them over, her back hitting the mattress again.
He’s as methodical as he’d been earlier, slow and dedicated, as if she were a poem he wanted to fully grasp – he undoes the last few buttons of her sundress and lets it fall to the floor with a rustling sound, then divests her of her lacy bralette. Once her breasts are free, he bends down to press kisses against their outline, following the pattern of freckles scattered there.
“So beautiful,” he keeps murmuring, awe in his voice. “You’re the brightest thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe you are mine.”
“Yours,” she echoes, arching into his touch. “I’m yours and you– oh–” He sucks a lovebite into the tender flesh of her breast, making her cry out. “You are mine.”
He groans against her skin, his hips rocking slightly against hers, eagerness and desperation in his movements.
“I wouldn’t want to be anyone else’s,” he tells her, and oh, it’s a heady thing, this idea.
She could get used to it. She wants to get used to it.
He takes her nipples into his mouth, teases them with his tongue, scrapes his teeth against the sensitive skin and Rey can’t do anything but sigh and moan and arch off the bed, her hands sinking into his hair, her hips chasing his, almost desperately. He’s so good at this kind of slow, aching torture – so good at making her delirious with want, so good at turning her into a whimpering, sobbing mess. She can’t even fault him for it – she loves the tortuous way he builds her desire, the steady flame burning low in her abdomen, the tension gripping her limbs.
“Ben–” Her hands come to tug at his shirt again, frantically reaching for its hem. “Off. Please. I need you. I need my husband.”
Unlike the worshipful way he’d gone about her dress, he divests himself of his clothes in quick moves, letting them pool on the floor without any care. Despite it all, it makes her lips twitch in a smile, because he is so eager – so hungry for her, so sweet and earnest in the way he wants her.
Once he’s removed his boxer-briefs too, he retrieves a condom from the pocket of his jeans, and puts it on with a hiss and a groan. Then, he climbs back on the bed and oh, it’s so pleasant – his familiar weight, the fair expanse of his chest, the solidity of his back against her hands when she comes to wrap her arms around his shoulders. Even his cock, hot and hard against her thigh, is welcome. He’s all corded muscles and powerful limbs and disheveled hair that falls on his forehead and tickles her face when he bends down to kiss her and her heart feels big for her own chest.
She feels almost awed.
“Ben,” she whispers, as if trying to convey all of it.
He laces their fingers together and brings their joined hands to his chest, where his heart is beating furiously against his ribcage.
“I know, sweetheart.” His lips brush against hers. “I know.”
When he says it, she knows he knows. She knows he feels it, too.
They’re still holding hands when he slowly, slowly, pushes home.
It’s always something sacred, the feeling of having Ben inside her. There’s nothing holier than this – her walls slowly surrounding him as she takes more and more of him, the sweet sounds and praises tumbling out of his mouth when finally bottoms out, her sobs and whimpers and whines, the sweat on their bodies, his hand resting at her hip, tilting her body so he can go deeper.
The kisses he plants on her forehead, her eyelids, her cheeks, the corner of her mouth.
“Sweetheart,” he breathes out, awe in his voice. “How do you feel? How does my sweet, perfect wife feel?”
As if she were bursting with pleasure. As if a small sun had been nestled inside her body and it was now on the cusp of expanding, burning everything else in its wake. She needs him to move – she needs him to fuck her, to adore her, to tell her he loves with no words, just the languid rhythm of his hips, the soft press of his lips against her flushed skin, the burning devotion in his eyes.
“I feel–” Her words die on her lips when he sucks a bruise on her neck, then soothes it with his tongue. “Ben– You feel so good– Please– I need–”
She needs. She’s spent her whole life pretending she didn’t, burying this hunger somewhere deep inside, but she needs, with a desperation that makes her heart ache. Tears pool in her eyes and she lets go of his hand only to wrap her arms around his shoulders, her legs around his waist, pulling him closer because she needs him, this wonderful man who makes loving her look like it cost him no effort at all.
“It’s alright, sweetheart,” he murmurs, above her, beautiful and gentle and adoring, so blissfully real. “I’m here. I’m going to take care of you.”
And before she can say anything – before she can start doubting him –, he starts to move.
He does it so sweetly it would be almost unbearable, if she weren’t so desperately starved for this tenderness. He never pulls out of her, but rolls his hips at a languid pace, driving himself home over and over again, hitting that sweet spot inside her that makes her tremble, that steals the air from her lungs and reduces her to a boneless thing in his arms, and she can’t do anything but cling to him, as if not to let him go.
“I’m going to worship you for the rest of our lives,” he promises into her skin, sucking another bruise into her collarbone. “I’m going to make you so happy if you’ll allow me– Rey–”
“I’m going to bring you here anytime you want.” He punctuates his words with a thrust, soft and gentle as his promises, and yet so maddening in the pleasure it evokes. “Teach you how to swim.” Another thrust, sharper this time, as if he were losing himself in the fantasy, too. “Bring you breakfast in bed. Kiss you awake everyday. I’m going to be so good to you, sweetheart.”
Her walls clench around him and she wails as he hits that special place inside her over and over again. She feels as if she were on fire, as if the steady flame burning low in her abdomen had slowly climbed up her spine, turning her whole body into a devastation of need and love and tenderness, and his words are stoking that fire, sweet promises that go straight to her heart and make her legs quiver around him.
She’s so close already.
“Ben–” Her words are slurred together, her voice hoarse. She sinks her short nails into his back, screws her eyes shut as he drives into her. “I want that. I– I need that–”
Another sharp thrust, another breathless gasp torn out of her mouth.
“I’m going to give that to you, sweetheart,” he tells her, without missing a beat. “I’m going to give everything you want, everything you need. Will you let me, sweetheart? Will you be my sweet wife?”
God, she dies to. She dies to be his, to be his wife, to come home from work and find him there, in their kitchen, making them dinner and kissing her sweetly as soon as he sees her. She dies to kiss the ring on his finger, to feel that comforting, familiar weight on her skin at night, as he slowly fucks into her.
“Yes,” she sobs. “Yes, Ben, yes–”
He thrusts even harder at that, as if her words had fueled him. “God, sweetheart," he breathes out, reverent. “You will look so pretty in white, so beautiful. I can’t wait to adore you. To be your husband.”
It’s a frantic thing, her heart – beating erratically in her chest as if to tell him yes, yes, she wants just that, she wants him to be her husband, she wants to be–
“My sweet, perfect wife.” He tilts her hips so he can slide deeper, so he can ruin her, making her see stars and making her cry in the same devoted thrust. “I’ve waited for you my whole life, sweetheart.”
“Ben–” She tugs at his hair, brings him down into a kiss that’s more a desperate clashing of teeth and lips than anything else. “I’m so close–”
There’s no need for other words. He understands her and brings a hand between their bodies, his fingers coming to circle her clit. She’s so worked up already – pleasure sparks like electricity as soon as he starts to tease her, her legs spasming, her hands clawing at his back. She doesn’t know if she’s crying or moaning or telling him how much she loves this, how much she loves him – she only knows he’s touching her just the way she needs and she’s clenching down on him and she’s so close–
“You deserve to come, sweetheart,” he tells her, his lips pressed against her temple, burning hot against her sweaty skin. “You deserve to come on your husband’s cock. I promise you, I will spend my whole life making you come. Making you happy. Please, darling– let me make you come– let your husband make you come–”
She comes with a sob, her whole body going tense into his arms, and it’s a sacred thing, this orgasm. It washes over her like a blessing, like the golden light of the sun spilling through the curtains – she trembles and cries and clings to him and she feels as if she were bathed in the surety of his love, shattering and falling back together, and Ben is here to hold her through it, pressing fervent kisses to her skin, murmuring sweet praises, reminding her she’s not alone.
It goes on forever, or so it seems. Her body trembles for so long, as if reeling from the aftershocks – she goes limp into his arms and whimpers every time he thrusts, holding him close as he chases down his own orgasm. He’s all desperation and frantic need, his lips parted, his eyes fixed on her face as if she were something spectacular.
“Rey–” he moans.
He almost sounds tormented.
She takes his face into her trembling hands, presses his forehead down to hers, tears in both of their eyes. “You did amazing, baby. You can come now. Come for your wife.”
It’s immediate. He tightens his grip on her hips, stills inside her and comes, collapsing on her and burying a groan against her neck. His body is wracked by tremors, as if overwhelmed by all of this, twitching and shaking like a leaf, and she holds him too, pressing kisses against his temple, running her fingers up and down his back, basking in the afterglow of their lovemaking.
The light of the sun filters through the curtain and bathes them in a soft, golden radiance as they slowly catch their breath. She can see the wisteria blossoms from the window, brushing against the glass, a lilac spot in her peripheral vision. The faint, spring breeze rushes through those blooms, making them sway in the air, and if she closes her eyes, she can almost smell their heady, sweet scent.
It feels like paradise.
Ben stirs, slowly. He puts his weight on his forearms, trembling just slightly from the effort, and looks down at her, his eyes watchful and full of tenderness.
“Was that–” He presses his lips together and a pink flush comes to dust his already reddened cheeks. “Was that okay? Was it too intense? Are you alright? I’m–”
She silences him by bringing him down in a kiss, soft and slow, as sweet as the scent of the wisteria blooms outside their windows. She can hear his heartbeat, pressed against her own, and it fills her chest with happiness.
“It was perfect,” she tells him. His body presses her down on the mattress, but it’s not unpleasant, she doesn’t feel crushed – instead, she feels safe. It’s familiar and soothing, his skin warm against hers, comforting. “I loved it.”
The grin that breaks on his face is her very favorite – crooked and dimpled and adorable. “You did?”
Her lips twitch into a matching smile when she nods, nuzzling her nose against his and humming, faintly.
“I did,” she assures him, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Then, quietly, she adds, “That doesn’t count as a proposal, though. I still expect one, when the time comes.”
He laughs, but his eyes are ardent and loving, full of that special kind of adoration that’s entirely Ben’s.
“You’ll have it,” he reassures. “You’ll have everything you want.”
The spring breeze ripples through the calm surface of the lake, its waters tinted pink from the light of the sunset, which is bathing everything in its soft tones, and Rey shivers, burrowing into the flannel shirt she stole from Ben, just because she could.
It’s so warm, and it smells like him. It probably clashes horribly with the rest of her outfit, but she likes the fact that she can swim in it, big as it is. It feels as if he were wrapping her in his embrace, even like this.
Ben drops next to her, sitting on the back porch of the house, and hands her a cup of tea with a tender smile. The smell rising from the mug mixes with the heady scent of the flowers all around and Rey feels as if her own heart were a garden in full bloom, immersed in this ever-lasting spring he brought into her soul.
It never felt like this before.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, still somewhat surprised by the fact that she’s got someone who makes her tea, now.
Someone who takes care of her, and makes it look like a privilege, instead of a burden. Part of her is still waiting for the moment everything comes crashing down – when he’ll realize she’s just not worth it, and he’ll leave, because of course he will. Because she’s never known anything else and abandonment is the only language she understands.
But – the rest of her, the most of her just knows he won’t. He won’t leave her, not now, not ever, because – because he loves her.
He hasn’t said it, of course. It’s still so soon and their relationship is still a tender little thing, something to take care of with all the gentleness in the world. Something that could blossom in a full garden, one day, if tended to. But for now, they’re content to stay like this – shoulder to shoulder, watching the sun set into the lake, basking in their love without saying anything. His hand lingers on her thigh, her head rests on his shoulder. The pink light of the sunset softens his features and gives a new brightness to his warm eyes.
He looks at her as if he loves her, and she knows he does.
She doesn't stop to wonder if she's worthy of it.
“It’s very beautiful here,” she tells him, instead, taking a sip of her tea.
The breeze comes to play with her hair and he gently tucks it behind her ear, his fingertips brushing against her jaw in the process. He cradles her face as if it were the most precious thing in the world, and it brings tears to her eyes, this devotion.
“You like it?” he asks, softly. Hopeful and eager, his eyes full of that special kind of happiness he seems to elicit in her heart, too, like a tidal wave she can’t help but let herself be swept by.
“I do. I love it. I was thinking–” She bites down on her bottom lip, then smiles at him, hesitant and yet so eager too, and it feels as if stripping down of all her defenses for the first time to let him see the beating heart underneath and oh, she knows now he’ll take care of it as if it were his own. “We could come back here. It would be difficult to make the trip every weekend, but– in the summer, maybe?”
He lights up – there’s no other way to put it. He brightens, as if he were made of the same glow of the sunset currently painting the lake out there into a masterpiece, and he’s so luminous – his kind eyes, his crooked smile, the constellations of moles on his skin.
She loves this quiet, wonderful man who promises her the future she’s always wanted. And she loves the fact that by loving him she’s allowing herself to want it, for the first time in her life.
“I would love that,” he replies, and she knows what he’s actually saying is, I love you.
So she smiles and rests her head upon his shoulder again. His body is warm and familiar and the rhythm of his breath is starting to become her favorite sound in the world. He leans in to pull her closer and drops a kiss to her forehead, and she basks in this perfect moment, as the pinkish light of the sun wraps them in its embrace.
It’s enough for now.