Chapter 8
I’m cranky the next morning when I roll out of bed hungover, trudging to the door where someone is pressing the buzzer to the building incessantly. Each reverb bounces off my skull and makes the pressure at the back of my head and my jaw throb. I want to murder whoever pulled me out of bed at 8 a.m. on a Sunday.
I rub at the joint of my jaw and cringe when I open my mouth until it clicks, but it feels the littlest bit better. I must have ground my teeth extra hard in my sleep.
I jab the button to the intercom aggressively, like that’s going to absorb any of my rage. “Yes? Can I help you?”
“I have a delivery here for a…sorry—an Emmeline Cahill?”
Squinting at the gray box like this man can somehow see the scowl on my face, I press the button again. “That’s me. I’ll be down in a minute, wait there.”
What could this possibly be? I haven’t ordered anything. At least, I don’t remember. Oh God. Did I do some online shopping last night? Overnight myself something? Did I spend all that money already?
I’m totally lost as I pull a hoodie off the hook in the entryway and slip it on. Stuffing my keys in the front pocket, I slip out the door into the hallway and glide down the stairs in my socked feet until I reach the landing. Pulling open the front door, a shiver runs through me as a gust of cold air whooshes through the doorway.
There’s a man in a navy and purple uniform standing on the stoop, ballcap on his head and a name tag that reads Greg tacked to his chest with two packages under his arm. He swivels to me and glances down at my bare legs beneath the hem of my hoodie, dragging his eyes up quickly before popping a smile on.
“Got this delivery for ya here, Miss Cahill. Happy Sunday to ya,” Greg says, passing me the packages after he scans them with the device in his hand.
“You, too,” I say warily, curling my arms around the boxes and blinking down at the address label.
He turns and leaves back to his delivery truck that’s double parked in front of the sidewalk.
When I get back upstairs inside the apartment, I toss my keys away and rip open the silverware drawer to pull out a knife. Slicing the tape across both the boxes, I peel back the cardboard flaps and take in a breath.
In the first box is a cardigan. My fingers tremble when I pick it up out of the box. It’s ivory with a lace collar and delicate, pastel floral embroidery on the pockets. When I slide it out of the plastic packet, it’s so soft and I love it immediately. I avoid looking at the price tag, because I don’t even want to know. My eyes close and I shake my head, looking back to the box with the lack of return address glaringly obvious as I stare at the bottom of the box.
The second box is a pair of shoes, ones I’ll surely break my neck in. Black Jimmy Choo heels with a crystal-embellished ankle bracelet and rhinestones trailing down the heel. I check the inside of the shoe, and they’re the correct size.
Motherfucker.
These are definitely worth more than the cash he gave me, no doubt about it. No return slip for these either, of course. There’s a printed piece of paper in this box, though.
Wear these tonight.
There must be something wrong with me. Because I have half a mind to grab up my phone and call Ben, telling him to take these gifts back.
But if I give them back, that defeats the purpose of this—of what we’re doing. I’m supposed to be grateful. I know I should be, and I said I would be to Cora, but it’s still hard when it comes down to it. I also can’t call him again like that. The other night was probably more than bordering on annoying when I rang him twice and nearly yelled at him. I’ve gotta get myself under control.
Shoving the empty boxes back on the table, I grab the shoe box along with the cardigan and head to my room. Tossing them both on my bed and climbing back under the covers, I dig my phone out from under my pillow and turn on several alarms to wake me up in a few hours. Then I do my best to fall back asleep to try and get rid of this nagging headache.
When I finally get to Ben’s apartment building, I almost turn around and head back for the bus.
It’s a high rise on the Upper West Side. Which I guess I should have expected, but somehow I wasn’t prepared to come face to face with the fancy building. The glass doors and touchscreen buzzer make my apartment feel like it’s straight out of the stone ages in comparison.
I put in the door code he texted me earlier and slip through the double doors as the lobby doorman greets me from the desk with a tip of his head. He doesn’t give me much of a second look, turning back to the book in his hands. I breeze toward the elevator as my heels click against the tile flooring.
Ben is on the tenth floor, which makes me a little queasy to think about. I don’t love heights, so I won’t be going out on his balcony if he has one.
When the elevator opens to his floor, I turn to the right to walk down the hall and count the numbers on the doors until I’m in front of 1011. Seconds, maybe minutes, pass as I stand in front of his door like I’m frozen in place.
Instead of raising my hand to knock on the door, I keep thinking about what his apartment looks like inside, how he’d probably have an aneurysm if he ever saw my bedroom, what his neighbors are like, how I am going to look them in the eye if I ever see them considering what I think this man is going to do to me tonight, if he’s a live or fake plant person, the fact that I’m not sure I remembered to put perfume on, and how I still didn’t do those dishes—
My phone rings.
I pull my purse up and dig through the open zipper to look at the screen. Of course, it’s Ben. He told me to be here at 6 p.m. and now it’s past 6:30 p.m. Instead of answering the call, I raise my hand and rap my knuckles against the wooden door.
It doesn’t take long for the door to open, revealing a very concerned looking Ben. A hand runs through his hair with his brows knitted together in a frown.
“Emmeline,” he says, reaching his palm out toward me. “Do you know what time it is?”
Slipping my hand into his, I allow him to guide me through the doorway. “Well, I do now. I didn’t realize I was running behind.”
Not exactly a lie.
Ben gives a little hmm near my ear, his hand slipping from mine as I squeeze by him and he closes the door. “I’d like to know if you’re going to be late in the future.”
“Noted.”
I pull my purse off and hang it on the hook in the entryway as his hands reach my shoulders, brushing the length of my hair away from the back of my neck. Breath blows over my ear, fingers trailing down my shoulders and arms as he tugs my jacket off.
“So you do own a jacket.”
“Yes,” I try to turn, but he holds me in place. “It’s not that cold outside. I would have worn your gift, but it didn’t really go with this outfit.”
He hangs my jacket up next to my purse. His palm returns to cup my upper arm as his fingers slip beneath the fluttery sleeve of my dress. My skin blooms with goosebumps beneath his touch. His other hand rests on my hip, fisting the green, gauzy material.
“You wore the heels, though.”
I’m not really sure why my response comes out so breathy, “As requested.”
“They look just as good on you as I imagined they would. Will look even better when they’re all you’re wearing.”
I can’t fucking breathe. My lungs burn as I take a breath in, slow and utterly shaky. I don’t want to seem so affected by that, by him, but I’m doing a piss poor job of it.
My hands reach for his just as he turns me in his grasp, walking me until my back hits the wall. I nearly stumble on said heels, but he holds me up, his hips pinning mine in place as his hands cage me above my shoulders. I tilt my head back, drinking in the way the expression on his face changes to one of carnal beauty. His gaze lowers from my face, slowly tracking down my body and then back up. Heat licks up my spine, my skin flushing under the weight of his stare.
Ben licks his lower lip, his hand dropping to grip my chin between his thumb and forefinger as he tilts my head further back, leaning in. The spice of cinnamon wafts over my lips. “I like your hair down like this, but I’ll miss the ease of a pony tail to wrap your hair around my fist.”
“I have a hair tie in my purse,” I say like an idiot. Or maybe not, if the way he smirks is any indication.
“It’s fine. We’ll make do.”
The thought of being manhandled by him is not unpleasant in the slightest.
His thumb swipes over my bottom lip, and my mouth drops open for him—I’m not sure whether to be angry that he’s actively trying to smear my lipstick or that he hasn’t kissed me yet.
“Ben…” I murmur, gripping his arm and waist, my nails digging into the soft fabric of his pullover to bring him closer. He looms over me, his hand slipping from the wall to my shoulder, tracing the neckline of my dress down to where the line of buttons hold it together. My body thrums beneath his touch, alighting a craving for more. He toys with the top button, thumb sliding it free. When I look down, he grips my chin in his hand tighter, pulling my face back up.
“You are so beautiful,” he says, lips ghosting over mine. “Here’s how tonight’s gonna go…” His beard scratches my cheek as he feathers his lips across my jaw, my ear. I roll my body against him in a shudder when he speaks again. “We’re gonna eat dinner, you’re gonna take your punishment like the bad girl you’re trying to be, then I’m gonna have my dessert.”
My thighs are already shaking. “What’s for dessert?”
Ben pulls back to watch me, fingers tracing down the front of my dress, playing with the buttons all the way. His hand slips underneath the hem at my thigh, skating up my legs. Then he uses his foot to knock against my ankle, kicking my legs apart as I sink down the wall an inch. My lips open further to suck in a breath as his fingers brush over the gusset of my panties in the lightest of touches.
“You’re a smart girl,” he says, keeping my face turned up to him as his thumb dips between my lips to press down on my tongue. “Surely, I don’t need to spell it out for you.”
I scrape the pad of his thumb with my teeth and he retreats, but I grip him between fistfuls of his pullover. My nails dig into his sides to bring him closer as I shift my hips into the hand between my legs. “Indulge me.”
His fingers spread over my jaw, sliding into my hair. He’s so close I could flick out my tongue and swipe it along his lip. He hovers, his mouth above mine. We’re sharing the same breath, and it’s driving me crazy.
“I’m gonna lay you out on my bed and eat this pretty little pussy” —Ben brushes his fingers over my panties, grabbing at the top of them and pulling them tight over my cunt. My clit throbs as I swallow down the whimper trying to leap up my throat—“until you beg me to stop.”
“Who says I’m going to beg?”
His lip twitches up at the corner. Even though I’m probably desperate enough to do anything he asks of me, I won’t admit it to him. But what I do want is him to close the rest of the distance and kiss me. My fingers ache from how hard I’m gripping at the fabric in between my fists, my stomach fluttering with each intake of breath.
If he would just—
Something brushes against my leg.
Something furry.
“You have a cat?” I gasp, shoving Ben out of the way as I look down at my feet and watch a multicolored, long-haired cat weave around my ankles. Crouching down, I smooth my dress over my thighs before offering a palm turned up for the cat who has skittered off behind Ben’s legs.
“This is Pebbles.” He gestures with a wave, stepping out of the way. The cat’s fluffy tail swishes in the air, big blue eyes trained on me curiously. “He’s somehow shy and a cockblock at the same time.”
“Awww, Daddy is being mean, isn’t he? Come here, Pebbles, I’ll give you some scratches.”
The cat comes toward my wiggling fingers with a cautious, low-to-the-ground slink, sniffing politely. I can see his little teeth and I just want to scoop him up, squish him, and pepper him with kisses all over.
Did I mention I was a cat person? I just don’t necessarily have the fortitude to care for another living, breathing, eating thing when I have a hard time caring for myself right now. Or else I would have a cat. Or three.
Pebbles decides he’ll take me up on my offer, turning his head to nuzzle his cheek along my palm, making me coo at him. I let him rub over my hand for a moment before taking over and moving up to scratch behind his ears, petting down the fur of his head and neck. He starts to purr, and it rumbles loudly in the quiet space.
“Such a pretty kitty, huh? You like that, huh?”
“Okay.” Ben tuts, running a hand through his hair and tugging on it. “Enough. Let me give you a tour, you can pet my cat later.”
“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?” I ask, my mouth turning up with a wicked grin.
“Emmeline.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. That’s clearly inappropriate.” I shake my head as I give Pebbles another pat on the head before rising and swallowing down my wince at the ache building in the arch of my feet.
I turn on my heel away from Ben to escape the dark look on his face, like he’d rather bend me over his knee right fucking now—before dinner, before anything else at all. I’d rather like to see the rest of his apartment before all I’m looking at is his bedroom ceiling for the rest of the night.
I walk further into the space, and I’m even more convinced he’d have an aneurysm if he saw the inside of my bedroom. Typically, our common area is kept moderately clean between Cora and I, but it’s clearly lived in—neither of us are obnoxiously tidy.
Ben’s space is incredibly orderly with a wide open floor plan for his kitchen, living, and dining. You could fit our whole apartment within a couple rooms for sure. Sleek concrete countertops in the kitchen, modern line sofa in the living room, glass-top formal dining table. Minimal approach to decorations with shades of gray, black, white, blue, and green. A bachelor pad, if I ever saw one. But a clean one.
I run my finger along the edge of the kitchen island, walking toward the potted plant sitting on the floor by a bookshelf in the living room. Rubbing the leaves between my fingers, I glance down at the pot.
“It’s fake,” Ben offers, as if aware I’m trying to sus him out. “I couldn’t keep a fiddle leaf fig alive in here even if I tried.” He moves around the couch, bracing his hands along the back of it before tilting his head toward Pebbles, who is perched on the arm of the couch. “He eats plants.”
“Well, aren’t you a little weirdo,” I trill, dropping the large leaf and booping Pebbles on the nose as I walk past. I look over the two bookshelves along the wall, glancing at the titles for anything interesting. I’m curious to know if they’re just for decoration or if he actually reads, considering there are quite a few shelves worth.
Multiple titles by Stephen King, Micheal Crichton, Jeffrey Archer, Jane Austen, and John Grisham—among other standalone titles.
I hook my finger on his copy of Persuasion, sliding it down the cracked spine. “You like to read, then? You’ve got a lot of books.”
“I do,” he answers with a shrug, coming to stand behind me. “When I find the time or something that I’m particularly interested in.”
His arm settles over mine, fingers drifting along the titles of the books as I try to note where they linger.
“Your tastes are pretty varied. Never would have taken you for a Jane Austen fan, either.”
“They’re classics,” he says, leaning into the back of my head. I swear he takes a long inhale of my hair. “Though I prefer a thriller, something that gets the heart racing. What’s your favorite flavor?”
“Romance,” I say without preamble. His hand circles my wrist as I lazily trail over his copy of A Time to Kill. He raises it up over my shoulder, pressing a kiss to the thin skin where my pulse jumps beneath his lips. I close my eyes and take in a breath that does nothing to calm the heat rising back to my skin. “Mostly spicy romance. Dark romance. Sports romance. Anything with romance, really. But spice is a must.”
“Mmm…and do you ever read these spicy romances with one hand between your legs?”
“Sometimes.”
His lips brush my throat, and my pulse thunders traitorously. “You’ll have to give me some recommendations. I’d like to experience your favorites.”
The thought of him reading any of the books that have consumed my entire soul does something inexplicable to me. Something deep and dark and twisted grips my heart, squeezing like a vice.
Twisting out of his hold, I push at Ben’s chest until he backs up a step, giving a breadth of air between us so I can breathe without losing my mind. His hair is mussed from running his fingers through, pupils dilated and pushing the dark brown to the edges, and his pullover is already wrinkled from my harsh grip. My gaze continues as I nudge his slippered foot with my heel, jealous.
“Okay—let’s slow down for a second. Stop the tour right here, and let’s go ahead and eat. Because if you show me your bedroom next, then I’m not coming back out.”
He grabs my hand where it’s still perched on his chest, circling my wrist like a handcuff. I think this man has an obsession with touching me. But that’s okay, because I quite like touching him, too.
“The short version, then. I have a guest room and an office. Bathroom’s in the hall. An ensuite in the primary bedroom.”
“Wonderful—great, you could fit, like, three of my apartments in the same space, honestly. I’ve never even been invited inside a New York apartment so nice. Usually the guys I go out with are studio level, at best. Or they have four other roommates in a three-bedroom space, and that’s pretty awkward to bring a girl back to have sex—”
My back hits the bookcase, the breath whooshing out of my lungs as he slides his hand up to wrap around my throat—the best kind of necklace. Rational thought empties like water from a broken dam. I feel my pupils dilate as the world narrows to a singular focus: Ben. My eyes flutter with the pressure on the sides of my neck as I crave his lips on mine with a dizzying intensity.
Want blooms so violently in my chest that I feel like bursting out of my skin.
He closes the distance between us, catches my bottom lip between his own and tugs it free before swiping his tongue over the bitten, swollen curve. Then our lips are pressed together, and the panic in my mind suddenly feels like a controlled chaos, soothing and quiet and hyper focused.
Ben steps further into me, fingers flexing at my throat. My lips part for him as he licks the seam, tongue working over the slip of my teeth. I meet him stroke for stroke, my hands sliding beneath the fabric of his pullover and undershirt, touching the chiseled abdominals I find as I rake my nails down his stomach.
He gives me a hum as his thigh slides between mine, applying pressure to my cunt and making my body grow warmer in response.
In fact, my whole body tightens. Something inside me shifts with the rising need for more. I grip at the waist of his pants, fingers digging in at his belt. I rise on my tiptoes, chasing his tongue as it backs out of my mouth. His leg shifts up, pressing more firmly against my cunt as he pushes me back until the sharp edges of the bookcase dent my skin, pulling a gasp from my throat. He swallows it greedily, lips bruising as he consumes and commands and takes.
And I give.
He separates us with a slow pull of my lip between his teeth, letting it bounce back into place as we pant into the air around us.
He breathes heavily, nostrils flaring as he takes in the swollen curve of my mouth. My fingers twitch to wipe the lipstick off his.
“Don’t”—Ben lets out a sound I can only describe as a growl— “talk about fucking other guys when you’re in my apartment—when I know you’re fucking wet for me.”
Oh yeah, there’s no question about that—but I say it anyway. “Oh, really? Maybe you should check.”
“Fucking brat,” Ben groans, vaulting forward to crush his mouth against mine again in a tangle of lips and teeth and tongue. I’m drowning in him so deeply, I don’t want to surface, not for a breath, not for another sassy quip on the tip of my tongue.
He lets go of my throat and my chest heaves, and even though my eyes are closed, the room still tilts on its axis. I’m lucky he’s holding me upright as I cling to him. Though it’s not a reprieve as his hand shoves my dress up and his thigh slides away from between my legs. His fingers brush the gusset of my panties, utterly soaked, and he makes a low noise of approval in his throat as he strokes up and down the seam of my pussy.
“That’s my girl,” he says into my neck, teeth scraping down the column of my throat, tongue against the dip of my collarbone.
I thrash my head back into the bookcase and wonder if it’s possible to give myself a concussion like this. I roll my hips, chasing his touch. It’s like I don’t even remember what I said five minutes ago about slowing down.
He yanks on my panties, pulling them to the side as his fingers slide through my drenched folds and I struggle to remain somewhat still. I just want to climb him like a fucking tree and sink myself on his cock. I’m not used to this kind of torture, because that’s what it is: torture. As impatient as I am, I bite my lip and chew my cheek as Ben slicks his fingers through my pussy with deliberate slowness, dragging up over my clit in a slow sweep that has me nearly panting before moving back down to tease my entrance.
He makes several passes, just playing with me, barely sliding his fingers inside before retreating, and I’m ready to punch him in the balls.
“Ben,” I whine pathetically.
“Yes, baby?”
“You’re an asshole.”
“All you asked me to do was check if you were wet. And this little pussy is fucking soaked for me,” he says with too much smugness to his tone. I turn my head in to nip at his neck with a snap of my teeth. “Now, now. It’s time for dinner.”
He gives my clit a hard tap with his wet fingers, and I jolt so hard I nearly knock a book off the shelf.
Ben pulls back to look at me and I know he’s assessing, cold and quiet calculations he files and stores away for later. Each breath, each sound, each movement of my hips and hands. He’s formulating a plan, drawing it out in his head like I’m the blueprint on his drafting table and he has to work out every little detail.
I’ll gladly show him.