The Pull

Chapter 17

He looked up from his laptop screen and didn't seem the least surprised to see I was to be seated next to him.

Did he set this up?

I involuntarily scrunched my face at my ridiculous thoughts.

For the last time woman, will you stop with the narcissistic conspiracy theories?!

"Is something wrong?" Ben looked at my distorted face with concern in his. I probably looked like I was trying to hold back a major fart, so I could understand him being worried.

"Uh, no. No. I just... realised I forgot my... toothbrush..." Wow. Ben raised a brow.

"Ok... I know Brits aren't exactly famous for their fabulous teeth health, but I'm sure we can find you a new one somewhere. Actually, I'm quite sure you have one in the sachet by your seat, courtesy of the airline." I could feel my face turning red, so I strategically turned my back on Ben and pretended to sort my hand luggage. As I sat down, a flight attendant approached us.
"Welcome aboard, Ms. Can I offer you something before take-off? It will be about fifteen minutes before we close the gate. A glass of champagne, perhaps? And you, sir?" He turned his gaze to Ben, and it was clearly obvious this lovely man was very into tall, dark and handsome men. Not that I blamed him. I could see the sparkle in his eyes when Ben looked up at him.
"I'll have a brandy, thank you." Ben turned his dark eyes to me. "Puck?"
"I'll have the same. Thanks." God knows I needed something strong if I was going to sit next to this man for hours and not touch him.
"I realise it's silly, but I didn't take you for a spirit drinker." I looked up and met Ben's gaze.
"Yeah. That is silly. Why wouldn't I like brandy?"
My comment was rewarded with that soft chuckle I loved so much.
"I have absolutely no idea. I should have known by now you, Ms Bower, don't live by other people's expectations of you." His eyes on me made it necessary to take a big gulp of the amber liquid handed to me by the Ben-smitten steward.
"I sure don't. That if anything, would be stupid." 

I have no idea how I managed to fall asleep in such proximity to Ben. Then again, it had happened before. The man was like freaking Xanax to me. However, Ben's closeness did not save me from PTSD-nightmares.

Mark was there again. This time he had me trapped in a room that was rapidly running out of air. I was suffocating and he was the only one capable of saving me but wouldn't.  I woke from gentle hands cupping my cheeks, wet from my tears. Ben was standing on his knees in front of me in the generous space around my seat. He held my face close to his, whispering.

"It's just a dream, love. You can just wake up and it will be gone. Come on Rachel. Wake up. I'm right here." I opened my eyes and looked into his. Dark amber, yet still so full of nuances. And shame hit me hard. What the hell was going on with me? Was I falling apart over Mark's almost assault? To be honest it wasn't even close to other stuff I'd been through. Why on earth was this getting to me in such an extent? I sat up straight, and by doing so forced Ben to let go of me.

"I'm sorry. I woke you, didn't I? It was just one of those stress dreams, you know? Probably the booze. Really. I'm fine." I refused to meet his gaze and instead started to smooth out imaginary wrinkles on my blouse. Ben seemed a bit frustrated by my words but said nothing about it.

"Of course." He sighed and I was sure I could see hurt in his eyes. "We're all a bit stressed out right now. Not the least strange to react to." He sat back in his seat again and I instantly missed the warmth that radiated off his body.

I did not sleep for the rest of the flight.

Heathrow was just as cluttered, British, and confusing as I imagined it to be. In the US everything is built big. It's like the American hybris warped into our infrastructure. Here, the corridors were narrow and went on for miles. The seats were smaller, the ceiling closer, the shops completely stuffed. I fell in love immediately. It reminded me of Zagreb, or Budapest. It made me think of the small apartment we rented for six months in Dijon. Old, but new. People were unbelievably polite, and it was refreshing. San Fran is far from the worst in our country, as I became acutely aware of travelling our major cities as a teenager. But I had become accustomed to the cold distance that is the way of my people. I may not have grown up there as I child, but I became who I am today living there, as an orphan. We grabbed a couple of black cabs that took us to the hotel. I, of course, ended up seated between Ben and Ty, making it impossible to not plaster my leg against his firm thigh.  The same thigh that had, in a not-so-distant past, pressed itself onto my intimacy, making my legs shake and my pussy clench.

Marvellous. Let your filthy mind wander there and you'll start making ugly sex noises in front of your colleagues and a British taxi driver named Otto in no time.

Our client resided in Shoreditch so our hotel did the same. It turned out to be an amazing part of the city, with artsy murals and quirky shops everywhere. Arriving at our hotel we all felt like celebrity as hotel staff in green suits opened the doors for us. It was a quite fancy establishment, in a charming kind of way. Checkered flooring, chairs in bright colours and drapes and just a touch of decadence: like the giant piano in the middle of the lobby, for instance. We all got key cards in our hands and went for the elevators (oh, I mean the lifts). I ended up having my room at the same floor as Will and Shiloh, with Will in the room next to mine. It was a cosy, warm room decorated with an amazing wallpaper and a deadly soft bed. Narrow windows displayed a busy street below. As I lay there watching the ceiling I wondered where Ben's room was. The man was driving me insane. I wanted him so bad it almost hurt, physically. He had a pull on me I've never experienced before, and it kind of freaked me out. Seriously, all these conflicting feelings were so frustrating.

I wanted him. I wanted him on my body. But as he had decided we were not going to be more than colleagues, that could not happen. Yet he sometimes sent a totally different message and that called to a more impulsive side of me. I wanted to make him need me like I needed him, but I felt conflicted. I could really mess things up if I just did what my heart – and some other body parts – wanted to.  (Ok, scratch that. I wasn't the least conflicted. I should leave it be, that was the correct, grown-up thing to do.  But I didn't want to).
On the other hand: he scared me. Not as in scared-scared, but... he had seen me vulnerable in a way that almost no one ever had, and I practically didn't even know him. I felt like I was about to share my inner most dark secrets every time he looked at me and that got me stirred. I'd built my entire stability on NOT letting people too close, and he just made me want to throw all that away. But if I did, I could crumble. I would crumble. And then there's this whole thing of him being so secretive. I was sure something was kept hidden there, and I felt obsessed with the thought of figuring it out. Why was it impossible to research him? I had even done a Google Scholar-search. Nothing. The man must have published at least one essay while going to university, but no. Nothing. Nada. Niente. It was such a double standard: I wanted to crack into his secrets but refused to let him close to mine.