Chapter 3
THREE
Avril
I might be eating the most delicious plate of food I’ve ever tasted. And it’s a cheese omelet. Not from the kitchen of a Michelin-starred chef, but Mr. Loverman himself.
I hate to admit it, but watching him crack eggs and shred cheese was actually hot. I think I might be coming down with a fever or something.
The problem is, I don’t want to be a spectator to a cooking show.
I came here to get laid. That’s why I suggested we go back to his place and have sex.
The way he responded to my exasperation with him with such good humor was a turn-on.
Instead of feeling embarrassed about getting called out for being cheesy, he took it all in his stride and he didn’t skip a beat.
That’s how a real man responds, rather than clapping back with some kind of put-down.
Ben didn’t see it as a bruise to his ego.
And the idea of sex with a man without a fragile ego is something I couldn’t pass up.
But now I’m sitting on a stainless-steel countertop wondering when Ben is going to try to get to first base.
“That was just what I needed,” he says, putting his plate in the dishwasher.
He really knows his way around this kitchen.
Of course, it’s his kitchen, but most New York men in their thirties couldn’t make an omelet if their next million depended on it.
I think I like the fact that Ben can not only turn on the stove, but can actually produce something edible. And best of all—clean up after himself.
He’s slick, but maybe there’s more to him than unctuous charm. Oh yes, I almost forgot, he’s also a linguist.
I laugh to myself. Nothing about going back to Ben’s place has been as I expected.
I wanted some hot, mindless, no-strings sex and instead I got an omelet and a college lecture.
I suppose it could be worse. We’re in New York City.
I could be dead in a dumpster right now after going back to a stranger’s apartment on my own.
“Have you finished?” he asks, holding his hand out for my plate.
“It’s good,” I say, glancing down at my half-eaten omelet. “I just…it was big.”
“I’m not offended.” He takes my plate, dumps the leftovers in the garbage and stacks the plate in the dishwasher next to his.
“I figured.” I sigh. “So am I going to call an Uber or what?” I pull out my phone, and as I bring up the app, he swipes my cell from me.
“I don’t think so.” He tosses it onto the countertop.
He slides my knees apart and stands between my legs. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Said the serial killer to his next victim.” I probably shouldn’t joke about murder. I don’t know Ben. He and my brother, Worth, definitely know each other, and he’s Aurora’s fiancé’s bestie. But still, I’m sure Charles Manson had a network.
He gazes at me, like he’s trying to figure me out.
“What do you like?” he asks, his voice quiet as he slides his hands up my thighs.
I narrow my eyes. “Like to eat?” Heat from his fingers seeps through the fabric of my dress and I’m a little distracted. What is he asking me? “I like omelets.”
The corners of his mouth twitch like I’ve said something funny.
“What do you like men to do to you? What do you want me to do to you?”
I swallow and feel my cheeks heat. “You want a checklist or something?”
He reaches for the hem of my dress and pushes it up, up, up. There’s so much material, it’s all bunching around us and I can hardly see him. He releases it all and it falls back down. Just when I thought things were starting to get interesting, he’s already given up.
“You need to stay still,” he says, as he produces a glinting, stainless-steel chef’s knife. My heartbeat ramps up for all the wrong reasons. He must see it in my eyes because he just smirks.
He hooks his pointer finger into the V-neck of my dress and slices it open.
I’m too shocked to say anything.
He cuts all the way down until my dress is in two pieces and I’m wearing an expensive, and unusual, cardigan.
“That’s better,” he says on a growl, as he parts the two edges of my dress.
“That was an expensive dress,” I say, squirming as I sit in just my panties.
“I’ll buy you another one.” His gaze travels up and down my body, like he’s committing it all to memory.
“You’re incredible,” he says, as he drags his knuckle down from the base of my throat, between my breasts, and over my stomach, before reaching the edge of my midnight-blue lace panties. “These are beautiful.”
He takes his knife and angles it away from my body, toward him as he cuts the lace at the hips.
He groans, and I can’t believe I’m letting him destroy my clothes. I can’t believe I’m sitting here in front of this virtual stranger, entirely naked, while he stands in front of me fully clothed as if I’m his pet or something.
We haven’t even kissed.
He cups my breasts in his hands, and whispers, “Perfect.”
Just before he releases them, he gives each nipple a sharp flick of his thumbs, and I gasp.
He watches my reaction, and then gives an approving nod.
Reaching around my back with one hand, he slides me closer to him, and then he licks my lips before pushing into my mouth in one swift movement, almost as if he can’t not kiss me.
It’s so entirely passionate, but controlled and considered at the same time.
And somehow that makes it hotter—the idea that underneath this man’s relaxed and happy-go-lucky front is a hidden part of him that I get to see.
A part of him that can’t not kiss me. A part of him that slices off my dress with a knife because he’s too impatient to undo the buttons.
A part of him that he keeps hidden until I bring it out of him.
“Lie back.” He splays his large hand over my chest and pushes me back onto the counter.
He slides the dress out from underneath me and the cold stainless steel makes me shiver as my skin touches it.
He slides my legs apart and I feel his hot breath against my skin, in such contrast to the cold of the surface I’m lying on.
“God, you look delicious. Your wetness is reflecting off the steel and it looks like your pussy is made of diamonds.”
I bite down on my bottom lip. I’ve never had a man talk to me during sex. And I’ve definitely never been told I have a pussy made of diamonds. I’ve got a feeling tonight is going to live on in my memory for quite a while.
He doesn’t tease me. He splays my legs wide open and circles my clit with his tongue. I press my hands flat on the steel, willing myself not to make a sound. This guy has way too much confidence as it is. He doesn’t need me to massage his ego by crying out with a single touch.
Then he pushes his tongue down, through my folds to my opening, and I gasp. He’s just so sure of what he’s doing, and he’s doing it so well. He circles and flicks and pushes and presses and I can’t hold it in any longer. His tongue is doing things that should be illegal.
I arch my back and cry out, “Ben!”
I need him to slow down. I need him to stop. I need to leave, to get out of here. I can’t let this man touch me like this.
Just as I think I can’t take any more, he slides his fingers into me.
My mind is so fuzzy, I’m not entirely sure it is his fingers.
I’m so full of sensation, it feels like I’m going to burst. He reaches up my body, to my breast, pinches my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and it’s like he’s detonated a bomb inside me.
I explode from the inside out. Every cell of my body bursts and I lose all conscious power over myself. I can hear myself crying out as my orgasm courses through me.
My legs are shaking and I reach down to see if I can steady them. Ben’s watching me, with a familiar smirk on his face.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he says, his deep voice vibrating up my spine.
I manage to prop myself up on my elbows to watch as he strips off his clothes. He only takes his gaze from mine to glance at my trembling thighs.
His body is ridiculous. He’s lean and muscled and he looks like he spends three hours in the gym every day, in between being a networking mobster or whatever in the hell it is that he does.
He has a small smattering of hair across his pectoral muscles that trails off down the center of his abs, to his hard cock which is standing upright against his stomach. It’s thick and it twitches as I watch.
I want it.
I’ve just come and I want it deep inside me.
Who am I? Who is Ben turning me into?
He grabs a condom from who knows where and slides it on.
“I’ll go slow,” he says, his voice just above a murmur. He knows he’s big. Bigger than I’ve had before.
“I can handle it,” I reply.
But my legs have only just stopped shaking and I’m not sure if I really can handle it. I just know I want to try.
“You want it so bad, don’t you?” He steps closer and pulls me up and places my arms around his neck.
I don’t answer him. What could I say?
“And you think you can handle me? You want me to drive into you so deep that you see stars? Is that what you want?”
His question isn’t rhetorical. He’s looking at me like he wants an answer.
I give a small nod.
“Say it,” he says. “Tell me what you want.”
I glance down at his thick, hard cock between us, then I look him in the eye. “I want you to fuck me.”
He groans. “I know you do.”
He positions his crown at my entrance, and I pull in a breath. I really hope I can handle this.
He slams into me in one sharp thrust, and I cry out.
He’s so big.
I can feel him everywhere.
I circle my legs around him. I want more. I have him so deep in me and I want more. I want it all.
“You okay?” he says.
“More,” I say.
“Good girl,” he replies. “Tell me what you like.”
I like him. I like this. I like him fucking me. I like everything about tonight. Everything about him.