Chapter Three
Easter
I t’s official then. My favourite colour is green. Moss green, to be exact. Damp, soft moss covering the forest bed after a light spring drizzle. Deep brown locks of hair resting against it, pale, near-translucent grey-brown eyes tipped towards the equally grey sky, creamy-white skin peeking from behind the collar of a moss-green shirt, pink lips shaped into an obscene O. And… right . If there’s a colour in hell aside from flaming red like the flames currently licking up my inner thighs, I bet it’s green, sent here to torture me in the middle of my own shop.
“You were—”
“What?!” I snap, my eyes dislodging from Benjamin’s collarbone, evident behind that cursed green neckline. It’s good quality. I can tell by the way the fabric drapes against his skin, the way it caresses his bones and cradles his… stop it, Easter! Will you just stop already? You know how this song goes.
“Sorry, Mr Bennett, sir,” he murmurs, his gaze flickering fucking everywhere, long eyelashes fluttering. I wonder if they flutter like that— exactly like that —when his lips are shaped into that O, his entire body engulfed in the throes of passion, a sweet moan curling from his mouth. I bet they do. I bet that O tastes just as sweet and tangy as candy oranges covered by the darkest, bitterest of chocolate, the filthy combination exploding on your tongue, your mind going momentarily blank.
“…chocolate. You were about to tell me about chocolate,” he breathes, his cheeks reddening. Cho-co-late.
He articulates the word in—at least to my deranged ears—the most obscene way possible. Much too obscene anyway for a bleak Wednesday morning. A morning that will, from this day forward, be known as the day that Easter M. Bennett officially and irrevocably lost his bloody mind. He says it in that airy, gaspy way, like one would say, ‘ suck me ’ or ‘ finger me ’ or ‘ fuck me .’
“…me?”
“What?” I croak, my vocabulary apparently now limited to that one word that doesn’t rhyme with twat but really should. Twat. Why, oh bloody why, is the universe doing this to me? All I wanted was a bloody shop assistant. Famous last words, I guess.
“I…” he looks uncertain around the shop, twisting his hands nervously. “I was just…where do you want me, Mr Bennett, sir?” His grey-brown eyes search my face questioningly. On the counter. Face down. Ass up. That stupid green shirt stuffed into your mouth while I stuff you from behind.
“There. Uhm, right there is fine, Mr Sable,” I near-groan. He looks at me, puzzled, because he’s standing just inside the shop door.
“Here?” He tilts his head, brown locks caressing the collar of the shirt that shall not be mentioned. “Right here?”
“Yes. ”
“You want to teach me about chocolate right here, Mr Bennett, sir?” Oh, for fuck’s sake, what’s with the Mr and the sir? Like one isn’t more than enough. This isn’t a bloody Dickens novel.
“Yes,” I bite out.
“But—”
“Look, Mr Sable. If you’re going to argue with me on your very first day of work, we might as well just terminate our relationship right now.” Yes, Easter, for the love of anything holy or unholy, let this boy go this very minute. Do it! But then it starts, a small quivering movement at first, at the right corner of his mouth until small waves of tremors move along his full bottom lip. He just manages to suck a small whimper back into his mouth before it escapes.
“Please, Mr Bennett, sir.” He looks at me, genuine despair in his pale eyes. “Please don’t fire me, sir.” He takes a step forward, and I automatically take one back, bumping my back against the counter, sending my favourite porcelain bowl—containing my precious porcelana— flying to the floor with a loud crash. Shit. I really fucking liked that bowl. “Oh no,” he cries out, his gaze dipping to the floor, his eyes tracking the beans scattered everywhere. “Oh, no! I’m so, so sorry, Mr Bennett, sir,” he stutters as he drops to the floor. He drops to the goddamn floor. My floor. Scrambling forward on his knees— on his fucking knees —he crawls along the hardwood floor, his slim fingers impossibly white against the dark-washed boards. Clawing his way forward, he looks up at me. “Please, Mr Bennett, sir. I’m so, so sorry.” He picks up a fragment of the bowl, cradling it in the palm of his right hand. “I’ll replace it. I promise. Just…” he hesitates as two fat tears make their way down his red-stained cheeks. “Just, please don’t let me go.” Don’t let me go. Fuck .
Something shifts inside me at that strangled plea. Don’t let me go. Something unfamiliar but not entirely unpleasant tugs at my heartstrings, like determined fingers pulling at the strings of a harp. A strange tune moves through my body, a long-forgotten melody, soft strokes from a distant room, beckoning at me. Don’t let me go. Realisation strikes as Benjamin reaches for the first bean. Well, two things at once, actually. I know what that B stands for. With absolute unwavering certainty, I know what it stands for. And second, there’s no way I’ll ever be able to let him go. Not when I’ve finally found him. Because there’s no doubt, is there? It’s him.
“Stop!” I order, the words slamming into Benjamin like a massive wave. He stops, his hand hovering just above the cocoa bean. Holding his breath, he remains frozen on his knees in front of me.
“Sir?” he whispers, his traitorous tongue peeking out, the tip swiping along his bottom lip.
“That’s not how you pick up a porcelana , is it?” I say with an edge to my voice that makes my own skin crawl. What the bloody hell? However, Benjamin shakes his head eagerly, brown curls tumbling onto his forehead.
“No, sir,” he rushes out, eyes wide, pupils blown black.
“Go ahead then. No time like the present.” I nod at the floor.
“Yes, sir,” he sniffs, eyeing the closest bean. And then he moves. Clasping his hands behind his back, knuckles white, he bends towards the floor, the tip of his nose brushing against the hard dark wood. Something explodes inside me, maybe, possibly, my heart or my brain, as the flames reach my loins, my cock swelling in my pants. I’m going to go to hell for this. I am. But I just can’t seem to help myself. Not when he’s on his knees for me like that. I can’t .
“Sir?” he whispers, his mouth hovering just above the cocoa bean.
“Do it,” I rasp, barely hanging on to my last inch of restraint, my balls heavy, my cock throbbing. It feels like the floor is opening beneath me, the walls of this century-old building dissolving into thin air; everything I’ve ever known to be true is now slipping through my fingers. I hold on to the edge of the counter, my fingers digging into the surface, as my world tilts, up becoming down, and down becoming up.
Benjamin opens his mouth, his lips quivering, his clasped hands twisting behind his back. Then he closes the gap between his face and the floor and sucks the bean into his mouth. A guttural groan leaves my lips, my balls drawing up, as my left hand flies to my crotch, squeezing my cock. I just manage to stave off my orgasm. Just . Benjamin doesn’t move as his mouth closes around the porcelana ; the outline of his frail shoulder blades visible behind the thin fabric of his shirt like small bony wings. He’s shivering and oh so very beautiful. I somehow always knew that he would be. Beautiful. But not like this. Not this broken and perfect at the same time. Perfect for me, my heart sings greedily.
On instinct, I push away from the counter. Bending at the hips, I hold my hand out in front of his mouth, palm up. Turning his face upwards, his eyes lock onto mine. He blinks once, a silent question lingering in the greyish-brown. I nod. His lips separate, saliva sticking to the bottom one. Then he sticks out his tongue, the precious bean resting on the soft pink cushion like an offering. I nod again and he bends his head and drops the bean into my palm. It’s wet and warm against my skin. Closing my hand around it, I reach out my other hand, hesitating. It’s still not too late, a distant rational voice whispers inside my head. You can still ask him to go. It’s not too late.
But the thing is, I don’t want him to. I don’t want him to leave now that I’ve finally found him. Because there’s no doubt. It’s him. I think I already knew it yesterday, my soul recognising him the minute he walked in the door, my mind only just catching up now. It’s him. It’s my—
“Thank you,” I say, closing the gap between my hand and his head, brushing my fingers through his soft, silky hair, petting him. Benjamin purrs, leaning into my hand, his head chasing my touch as I dig the tips of my fingers into his scalp. Lovely . He’s so lovely. I wonder if he feels it, too. The sudden shift. I think somehow, he must, the air sparkling all around us, the world as we know it now blown to smithereens. “Thank you,” I repeat, reluctantly removing my hand from his hair, a rogue lock tangled around my ring finger, the deep brown vibrant against my skin.
He smiles at me, his eyes shimmering, spilling over with joy at my praise. Oh, there’s no doubt. It most certainly is him. And so I tell him.
“Go on.” I nod at the floor, at the beans that are now only the second most precious to me. “Go on, Bunny .” Startled, he sucks in a breath, his eyes turning just a shade darker, his nostrils flaring. Pink watercolour spills from his cheeks down to his chin and further down his neck until it disappears behind the green. Then he collects himself, a shy smile coasting along his lips. Those two words, the best fucking words in the English vocabulary, spilling from his mouth, “Yes, Master.”