Chapter 17
Bardot Brothers (+ Bex)
Gabe
Anders is spending Christmas with us.
Ben
Good. Maybe Mom and Dad won’t notice the dent in my car if they are focused on the Golden Child.
Jules
Doubtful.
Gabe
Bex? You good?
Your silence means yes.
I’m not going to lie, the whole Cassie thing really freaked me out last night. I keep having flashbacks to the times I would pick Gabe and Anders up from various parties while they were in undergrad. Anders never had trouble with the ladies.
Also, I realize saying “with the ladies” makes me sound eighty years old but I am, self-admittedly, very quirky. An old soul, if you will.
And very different from gorgeous blondes named Cassie, who are also probably extremely talented or else they wouldn’t be in an MFA program.
It’s not even that I”m putting myself down right now. I have worked really hard on liking, and loving, myself, just the way I am. I guess I still just have a hard time wrapping my head around Anders wanting to date me. Something that has been a literal dream of mine for years.
And since I’m having such a hard time with this, I panic-arrived at Anders’ apartment fifteen minutes early and have been awkwardly standing in the hallway ever since.
Every time I raise my fist to knock, my bones all lock up—my fight, flight, or freeze response activating. I feel like I’m an interloper in my own life and I don’t like that. I’m about to turn around and just go home when I hear Anders’ voice through the door.
“Are you ever going to come in or are you just going to stand there all morning? I have black coffee for you, but you have to open the door.”
And just like that, he sets me at ease. The way he knows me sometimes knocks me off my feet. Feelings I never felt with Jack come so easily with Anders.
“I also have chocolate chip pancakes!” he sing-songs, still keeping the door between us, knowing I might need processing time.
Oh, I’m fucked alright.
“This is ridiculous, Bex. I’m opening the door.” When he does just that, he’s standing there in gray fucking sweatpants, a plain white T-shirt, a backwards baseball hat, and a cocky grin on his face.
“I was wrong, I can’t do this.”
Before I can turn around, head back home, and wake up from what is obviously a fever dream, Anders grabs me by the shoulders and gently guides me into the apartment.
“Yes you can. I believe in you,” he says, not even knowing why he should believe in me.
Strong hands lead me over to the kitchen table and gently push me down into a chair. A mug of black coffee and a heaping plate of the chocolatiest chocolate chip pancakes are laid in front of me. I absentmindedly swipe my finger through the whipped cream and suck it off. A groan comes from across the table, and that’s when I realize that Anders has taken the place across from me, where he seems to always be.
“Don’t do that,” he growls and holy hell, I didn’t know that happened in real life.
His obvious arousal—well, that and the backwards baseball cap—gives me the confidence I need. I swipe a finger through the whipped cream again, exaggerating each movement as I place it on my tongue. Lips pursed around my finger, I suck gently, hollowing out my cheeks as I slowly pull it from my mouth.
His eyes widen, not expecting my boldness. “Damn,” he whispers, almost reverently. He clears his throat, slightly shaking his head.
“So… why, uh—shit,” he mumbles. “Why did you come over last night?”
Why did I… Oh! Yes. That”s why we’re here this morning. Not so I can suck whipped cream off my perfectly manicured finger.
Maybe we can come back to that later, though.
“I was thinking about what you said at the bar the other night,” I say, picking up my fork and digging into the fluffy pancakes.
The tentative excitement I see in his eyes almost makes me second guess what I’m about to suggest. But I think again about Cassie flying in the door last night like she owned the place, and I know I’ve got to protect myself from heartbreak, as if that’s possible.
“What about it?” he asks.
“I think we should, uhm, be more than friends, too.” I shove a forkful of pancake into my mouth.
His grin lights up his face. “And what exactly does that mean to you?”
It takes me a second to finish chewing and, oh my gracious, these pancakes are divine. “Well, I think we should be, you know…”
“I don’t know, Bex. Tell me exactly what you want.” The mischievous glint in his eye tells me that he’s enjoying watching me squirm.
I’m absolutely terrified. Oh God, I can’t say this out loud! I immediately shovel more chocolatey heaven into my mouth. Seems like a good idea.
“I fink weh shold beh fwends wif benfits,” I say around a mouthful of food. No idea if he caught that but I should take another bite just to make sure I don’t have the ability to say anything else.
Chancing a glance up at him, I realize his eyes are already on me. He almost looks… disappointed? That can’t be right.
He quickly schools his features.
“Benefits, huh?”
Okay, so he did catch what I said.
I nod.
“What kind of benefits do you want from this friendship, Bex?” The sexy smirk is back, even if it looks slightly off.
I gulp.
“I mean, I already bring you coffee to class three times a week. I’d say that’s pretty beneficial. I made your favorite breakfast this morning—also beneficial. I’m happy to help you in other ways… I just need you to tell me what you want here.”
More pancakes. I need more pancakes. I go in for another bite only to find my plate is empty.
Anders stands and slowly rounds the table. “Do you need more pancakes, Baby Bardot?”
I scowl. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not? Friends have nicknames for each other and that’s what we are, isn’t it? Friends? Well, friends with benefits. As soon as you tell me what those benefits are.”
He’s standing over me now and my eye line is right at those damn gray sweatpants. I look up, up, up across the expanse of white T-shirt, past the scruffy beard, to his green eyes, full of fire.
He leans down, grabbing the plate from in front of me, and stops mere centimeters away from my ear. “Do I need to show you some of the benefits of my friendship?”
I’m too stunned to say anything so I just sit there, paralyzed with what I think is lust.
I look back down at his sweatpants. Yup, definitely lust.
Anders pulls my chair back, startling me to my feet. He sets my plate to the side and his hands come to my waist as he spins me around so the back of my thighs hit the table. In the blink of an eye, he’s in front of me and lifting me up so I’m sitting on top of the table, straddling him.
On instinct, my legs reach out and wrap around his hips, pulling him closer to me. His hands bracket either side of my hips, resting on the kitchen table.
“Is this what you want, Bex? Me between your legs? You feel the connection between us, don’t you? You want my friendship…” He reaches up to toy with the hem of my oversized sweatshirt. “But you also want more. I can give you whatever you want from me, baby, but you have to tell me what it is.”
I. Am. Speechless.
I clear my throat, summoning some courage. “I’m, uhm, not sure what this looks like,” I choke out. “I’ve never… uh, done this kind of thing.”
He leans closer, our noses are almost brushing. Right before his lips touch mine, he turns his head, looking down at the discarded plate next to us. Slowly, sofucking slowly, he drags his finger through some of the left over whipped cream before bringing it up to my lips.
“Open your mouth,” he demands.
I gasp, unintentionally following his directions. He sees the opening and places his finger on my tongue.
“Suck it off like the good girl I know you are, Baby Bardot. But don’t swallow.” Hoooo-ly shit.
I do what the man says.
“You liked being a little brat and taunting me with that damn whipped cream finger earlier. I needed to feel it for myself.” He taps my chin. “Open up and let me see.” My mouth opens and I stick my tongue out, showing him the whipped cream as it dissolves on my tongue. His eyes zero in and I’m sure I paint quite the picture right now, my chest rising with each rapid breath.
Finally, he looks up at me. “Can I taste?” There is something so hot about him stopping to get consent in this moment, and all I can do is dip my chin in an affirmative.
With molten eyes and a devilish grin, he leans down and licks the whipped cream off my tongue. I think I might come and he hasn’t even really touched me yet. I’d like to say I’m regretting this whole friends with benefits thing, but I’m absolutely, definitely not.
A moan escapes my lips, eyes rolling back, as my hips move forward seeking friction only he can give. When I finally connect with his erection, my eyes spring open. He’s already rock hard. Do I do that to him?
“Yes, you do.” Oops, guess I asked that out loud. I unashamedly move my hips and now it’s his turn to groan.
“Anders, I need more,” I plead.
He reaches back down to the hem of my sweatshirt. “May I?” he asks.
I lift my arms straight up so he can pull the bulky item over my head. I’m left in a workout crop top and leggings. His hand comes up to my collarbone, the touch searing my bare skin as he gently eases me back until I’m lying on the table. Those searching hands skim down my body until they get to the waistband of my leggings.
“As hot as these are, I need them off. Is that beneficial for you?” His left eyebrow quirks with this question and even with how turned on I am, I can’t help but roll my eyes at him, which just makes both eyebrows raise as he pulls his hands from my waist. “Careful, Bex. Friends who roll their eyes don’t get benefits.”
He’s teasing, so I tease right back. Fixing my face into a serious expression, I grab his hands and place them back on my waist with a firm, “Yes, sir.”
“Fuck. Don’t move,” he says, walking backwards toward the kitchen. His, ahem, package is straining against the front of his sweatpants and I lick my lips in anticipation. He’s only gone for a second before he reappears with the entire whipped cream can in his hands.
“What’s that for?!” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I know the answer.
“I’m still hungry,” is his only reply.
So am I.
When he’s back in front of me, he pauses so his eyes can trace me from head to toe, heating every inch they pass. Taking a deep breath, he tips his head back, closing his eyes. I feel the desire vibrating off his body. After a moment, he shakes his head, effectively shaking off whatever thoughts were running through it. Before I can ask what’s going on, his hands are back at my waist, peeling down my leggings. When he gets to my lacey hot pink thong, he lets out another curse, speeding up the removal of both the leggings and the thong.
And now I’m laying in front of Anders Olsson half-naked, something I’ve dreamed of doing for over six years.
“So pretty,” he whispers. And the way he’s looking almost worshipful at me has my legs closing self-consciously. Big hands go to my knees, holding me. Exposing me. “No, no. You keep these legs open for me, baby.”
“Who the fuck are you?” I ask, knowing I should keep this question in my head, but seriously—it’s like a woman wrote this man. He’s stepped off the pages of my smuttiest romance novels.
“Your teenage fantasy,” he quips and that actually makes me laugh out loud, bringing some much needed levity to the situation.
“You have no idea how accurate that is.”
“Well then, let’s make that fantasy come to life, shall we?”
And he wastes no time in doing just that. His knees hit the floor and he grabs the whipped cream can, shaking it so he can draw one line across my lower stomach and one up each thigh. His hot, wet mouth follows the path, licking off every last drop of the sugary cream. The rough texture of his tongue is driving me wild, and by the time he’s finished, my hands have tangled in his hair and I’m squirming on the table.
I have never, I mean never, felt a desire like this before. My body feels flushed and if he doesn’t put his mouth where I really want it, I might do something stupid like push him to the ground and straddle his face.
Digging my nails into his scalp, I tug his head trying to get it in between my legs.
The motherfucker has the audacity to laugh at me. “Patience, Baby Bardot.”
“I’m fresh out of that, I’m afraid. Please, Anders.”
He chuckles. “Needy, needy,” he scolds as he kisses up my right thigh until he gets to my hip. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
“God, yes. Damn, just—” I’m cut off as he licks a straight path directly through my center, landing on my clit. The scratch of his beard against my thigh makes my toes curl and my hips buck. “Shit. Yes, that.”
I’m so keyed up that all it takes is a few minutes of strategically placed licks and sucks—damn, this man knows what he’s doing—and my legs are snapping closed around his head, my upper body curling up with the force of the orgasm hitting me. He keeps going as wave after wave crashes over me before I finally float back down to earth.
Well, back down to Anders’ kitchen table.
He grabs both of my hands, pulling me up until I crash into his firm chest. His palms rub circles around my back in the most soothing and tender gesture, until one comes under my chin to lift my eyes to his. Before I get there, though, they snag on his soaked lips. My eyes widen in embarrassment. “Oh gosh, I’m all over you! Here, let me help.” I reach out to wipe my arousal from his lips, but he grabs my wrist, stopping me.
“I’d love for you to help, but”—he pins my wrists together in between us—“no hands,” he says with a wink, a challenge in his tone. He’s watching me, unsure how I’ll respond to this side of him.
So, naturally, I lean forward and take his mouth with mine. This is not how I imagined my first kiss with Anders, especially since I’ve never tasted myself like this before, but it’s so perfectly us. He’s always been ready to go toe-to-toe with me, and I feel a sense of relief that that’s not changing, even when it feels like everything else is.
I groan as his tongue slides into my mouth, but as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone. Anders bends down, grabbing my underwear and leggings, and helps me back into them before walking around the table and sitting back down in front of his pancakes. He takes a large forkful and stuffs it into the same mouth that was just between my legs.
He swallows, looks me right in the eye, and says, “Damn, that was delicious.”