Chapter 26 #2
I barely sit down before I practically inhale the first one, bliss humming through my chest.
Ben walks from the sofa and sits across the table, watching me amusedly. "Looks like your appetite's back."
That makes me slow down and put it back on the tray. "You think I gained weight?"
He rolls his eyes. "Eat." It sounds like a commandment.
I glare at him, puckering my lips, but take another bite anyway.
"You and your damn diets. I want you soft again. Voluptuous, like you used to be," he says and leans over the table, thumb wiping the ricotta from the corner of my mouth, then licks his finger, even though I know he doesn't like it.
"I don't get how you don't like these," I say.
He shrugs. "What's the craze about it?"
Chewing slowly, I close my eyes and try to describe the taste. "It's sweet, but with bite. Melts on your tongue and then stays there after you've eaten it. It just makes you addicted. Simple as that."
He hums thoughtfully. "Simple as that, huh? Sounds exactly like how I feel about you."
I freeze mid-bite, recalling everything I just said, then melt. “Awwww!”
His mouth curves. “I know how to get you. Red velvet and cherries.”
My eyes narrow as I point at him. “Don’t even mention the cherries. Low blow. Even for you.”
“Uh-huh. What about that white skirt you showed up in?” He gets up from the chair and walks over to me to dip his face close to mine. His eyes narrow. “Also a low blow. I could see your ass every time you moved—how it was begging for me. Should’ve nailed you right on that table.”
I snort at his depravity and make a move to get up, but before I can even take a step, he sweeps me off my feet—literally.
He carries me down the stairs to the living room and lays me gently onto our oversized sofa. We snuggle into each other the way we always do, with our feet tangled, and watch the movie, but mostly we doze off.
When I wake up to the rolling credits song and Ben breathing slow against my back, it's already getting dark outside. I spent another full day with him.
"Ben?"
"Emma?" His voice is heavy, scraped by his last brutal shift.
"Have you... ever had this much chemistry with anyone?" I ask with a shy smile.
The second I blurt it out, I feel stupid—I don't really know why I'm asking something that could ruin me. But I guess I want to know.
He shakes his head against my back immediately. "No. Never."
It's the speed that gets me, like it didn't even require thinking.
I grin wide into the pillow and curl closer to him. "Yeah. Me neither."
I think he's going to appreciate it, but his body goes still. The sofa-haze is done, I can tell.
"I wasn't ready to think about your past lovers," he mutters, voice gravelly. "Hate the idea."
I roll my eyes. "Saint Bellini, offended by basic human history."
He doesn't answer, so I sigh because fine, honesty deserves honesty.
"Well, just so you know..." I clear my throat. "You're only the fourth person I've ever been with."
He shifts behind me, fully awake now. "What?"
Why do I suddenly feel so stupid? It's a good thing. No?
I fiddle with the sleeve of my hoodie and whisper, "Yeah."
In one fluid motion, he flips me to face him and searches my eyes. "Like... ever?"
I give him an annoyed look, tempted to smack him. "What do you mean? Yes. Ever." I snap the last word under my breath.
Shock flits across his face with satisfaction, instantly followed by a flicker of disbelief. "So where the hell did you learn to ride like that? That pelvis is a professional."
I burst out laughing. "Yoga, twice a week, duh."
"Yoga?" He echoes, suspicion tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You expect me to believe a few stretches turned you into a sex goddess?"
"Maybe I was born with it," I tease. "And it's true. I'm a long-term relationship girl, okay?"
His arms tighten around me possessively. "You realize four is where it ends, right? You're not getting to five. Not in this lifetime. Or any lifetime."
I pull a face at him, teasing him. "You don't know that."
"Like hell I know that—not under my watch. I'd destroy the guy before he even looked at you," he shoots out.
"You're so smug."
"Nope—just aware," he says, his brow ticking upward in a slow challenge. "You had three amateurs, then me. You think anyone else is going to measure up? I've ruined you."
"Well, while we're at it and you're so damn cocky—" I nod my chin at him. "How many?"
He frowns, as if he didn't expect me to ask him.
Neither did I. Why do I even want to know all this?
"Don't ask me something I can't take back," he says then, voice firm.
My eyes narrow. "Come on. Say it."
He rolls his eyes. "Alright. Depends. You want the honest truth or the curated-for-your-comfort truth?"
"Since when do you do comfortable?" I shoot back, even though my stomach knots. "Truth. How many?"
He scratches his scruff, still weighing it until I nudge him with my elbow. "Alright... Double digits."
My eyes fly wide and he catches it. For a second, his gaze holds mine—unguarded, almost regretful—before the smirk comes back like armor.
I give him a stupid smirk of my own and say flatly, "Of course. High double digits?"
"No. Doesn't matter." He hooks my chin, tilting it so I can't look away. "Ask me how many I remember instead."
"How many?"
"None. Practice rounds before the real thing."
"Hmmm. I love how you justify being a slut."
"I've nothing to justify. You asked me and didn't want me to lie. I'm a guy with a healthy libido, but I never played anyone. I was always upfront about my intentions."
What do you say to that? Nothing. I just turn around, giving him my back.
He wraps his arms around me, whispering into my ear: "We both tried to do the right thing with the wrong people, and now we're doing the wrong thing with the right person. End of story."
"Hm. End of story..." I echo dryly, even though I hope that's the case. Then I stare at the flickering screen until I fall asleep again.
An hour later, I get up, eat more cannoli to cope with the damn double digits—yeah, I'm not over it—and go change into my civil wear.
When I pull out my phone from my purse, the screen is crowded with missed calls and messages—all from Lu.
Lu: Stop getting railed and answer your damn phone
Lu: Exhibition opens in two hours. TWO. HOURS.
Lu: I'm pretending to be zen but my left eyelash just fell off and I think that's a sign
Lu: Okay, didn't even officially open yet and someone purchased two of my BURN-THEM-ALIVE era paintings. I'm calming down
Lu: Damn, it's getting aggressively peoply in here. Get ready. And bring gum. I forgot it
She's officially a train wreck.
When I get back to the living room, Ben's deep in his phone. "I'm going to order food. Do you feel like Vietnamese?"
"I can't stay. Lucy's exhibition is tonight. I have to go get ready," I say, packing my stuff in my purse.
He turns his head toward me. A pause. "You know I won't see you 'til Mara's wedding?" He's trying to sound casual but his body is rigid. "Two back-to-back shifts, then the climbing event and I'll have to fly a day earlier."
"Jesus. That's not healthy. When do you even sleep?"
He walks to the main door, his shoulders filling the whole frame, his face flat.
"Why wasn't I invited?" he asks. "Is Richard going?"
"I didn't think you'd be into that—"
"I'm into anything you're into," he says fast. "Are you taking him with you?"
"No." My brows knit. "Richard isn't going."
"You're lying."
"I'm not," I say, my patience cracking.
"You lied the other day when you said you were busy. Went with him to some Halloween party."
"I didn't lie. I told you I had a plan. That was the plan," I fire. "And I couldn't tell you because you instantly snap every time I mention him."
He frowns. "I have to ask you something, and you need to be honest. Completely honest. For once."
My eyes narrow. "Nice insult. Didn't pass unnoticed. What?" I snap.
He crosses his arms and studies me with hunter-sharp eyes, tracking for dishonesty. Then, a sharp inhale before he says, "Are you sleeping with him?"
I roll my eyes, my jaw locking. "We already had this conversation."
"Emma," he says like he knows something I don't. "Don't tell me a man lies next to you for two months and doesn't even touch you."
"Well, you didn't—for a year," I say pointedly.
"That was different," he snaps, louder. "We were friends. He's your—" his jaw grinds, "—husband."
That snap right there—I've seen this mood before and it's barely manageable. The only thing I can do is lower my voice and try to calm him down.
I step closer, put my hand on his shoulder because he won't open his arms.
"Ben, I already told you, I haven't touched Richard in months," I say, as softly as I can since I'm also upset. "Not that you need to know, but even before you... we barely did it."
It's true. But his shoulders stay rigid, and I know I can't tell him the full truth—that Richard's hands have been wandering because we're still married, and my excuses are running thin.
If I told Ben, I don't know what he would do.
Ben swallows, throat working like he's trying to digest bile. "I hope you're not lying about this one. If you did, we'd be over. We're sinners, but we shouldn't lie to each other. Alright?"
"Yeah. Alright," I echo dryly.
He rolls his eyes and walks over to the sofa to slump on it. "Not fair, making me feel guilty for wanting more. You've practically lived here the past week."
"I could say the same," I fire back. "Carl's losing it because I barely reply. I'm a shitty friend to Lu. And now? You make me feel like crap."
"I make you feel like crap?" He drags his hand through his hair and turns away from me. "Yeah right. I'm too tired for this. Need some sleep. Just go, please."
I blink, caught off guard, my cheeks heating up instantly. "Are you kicking me out?"
"No, but I also don't want to see your face now."
My jaw drops as I stand by the door, eyes burning into his back. "You don't mean that."
"I do," he says flatly and turns his head slightly. "Thought you were in a hurry?"
I scoff. Yank my heels from the rack and force my feet in. "You know, sometimes I hate you. It's time you learn how to manage your anger without torching the whole damn world."
"You need to learn how to stop lying," he shoots back and lies down. "See you."
I can't believe he's doing this, when one of our rules is never to leave the house fighting—when I'm not going to see him for four days.
"Perfect!" I shout, shouldering my bag. "See you never."
The door slams harder than I mean it to—that's the point.