Make Me Bad - R.S. Grey Page 0,45

Madison. Jesus, you could have a concussion.”

I held the ice pack to my head and kept my mouth shut. If he wanted to deal with my dad, so be it. Turned out, I was worrying for nothing—my dad wasn’t home. Ben pulled up to our empty driveway and shot out of his car to open my door before I could. He wanted to carry me up the front walk, but when I insisted I could do it on my own, he resorted to toting me along like a wounded soldier. My feet barely touched the ground. At the door, he took the keys out of my hand and unlocked it, pushing it open for me.

I stepped inside and he hovered there, toeing the line.

“Do you think you have enough ice packs?” he asked, brows furrowed in concern.

I gestured to the one currently in use on my head and the two others the doctor had given me that would promptly get placed in the freezer.

“Do you have some medicine to take for the headache? The doctor said you could.”

“Yes. Lots.”

His eyes widened. “Don’t overdo it.”

“Ben,” I said, stepping forward and patting his chest to get him to calm down, but then my hand sort of had a mind of its own because his chest was unreal, like a living, breathing brick wall. I pat, pat, patted it, and he didn’t even tell me to stop because I think he assumed my injury had really set in. I wasn’t in control of my actions. I could have declared my love for him right there and he would have blinked and told me to go lie down.

“How many times a week do you work out?”

He shook his head and stepped past me. “That’s it. C’mon, I’m going to help you get set up so you can rest.”

“Ben! Oh my god, you have to get out. What if my dad comes home?!”

I leaped in front of him as he tried to walk down the hall to the kitchen, my ice pack forgotten on the ground. I propped two hands on his chest, dug my heels in, and then pushed him with all my might. Nothing. I groaned and tried again. Worse—he moved me aside.

“Where’s your room?” he asked, walking away from me.

“Not there! That’s the kitchen!”

I was freaking out, scared my dad would stroll in any minute. What would he think if he found me alone with Ben in the house? Oh dear god, I wasn’t prepared to find out.

“My room is up this way!” I shouted, hoping if I was extra compliant, I’d satisfy him enough that he’d leave.

I took the stairs two at a time and pushed the door open at the end of the hall. There she was in all her glory, my childhood-bedroom-turned-adult-hideout.

Sure, I updated my comforter from the zebra print to a nice neutral blue a few years back, but the bed itself is still baby pink, and the ceilings are still bordered by a thin row of colorful daisies. I’ve been meaning to do something about all those old posters on the wall, but it was too late because Ben was there, right behind me, staring at them and judging my love for the Backstreet Boys.

Or maybe not. He swept his gaze across the space with near indifference until his attention settled on my bed. Did it meet his standards? Did he sleep with women on queen-sized mattresses or was his lovemaking so rambunctious that only king-sized would do?

“C’mon. Take your shoes off,” he said, pushing me toward my unmade bed.

“Huh, I always thought my first time would be more romantic than this.”

My attempt at humor was lost on him.

“Sit down. Socks too.” He pushed me down to sit on the edge and kneeled to peel off my boots and socks. In the process, his finger pad ran along the bottom of my foot and goose bumps bloomed down my spine.

“I take back what I just said about this not being romantic—that was downright erotic. Put my socks back on and take them off again.”

His mouth stayed right smack dab between a smile and a frown. He wasn’t going to give in to my delirium.

“Lie back,” he insisted, pushing to stand and lifting my legs up onto the bed for me.

I had a bump on my head, but to him, it was like my entire body had stopped working. I wasn’t even trying to play it up as a terrible injury or anything; he’d come to that conclusion