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I stand back with my arms against the counter watching him as he dices the onions, chops the peppers, and juliennes the carrots.
“Show-off,” I mutter as he slices perfect rectangle wedges out of the last orange stick.
I take a sip of my drink and move closer. “I think you need an apron,” I whisper in his ear, and then nibble on it.
“I have to concentrate and with you doing that, it’s hard.”
I giggle.
He picks up the cutting board and pours all the perfectly cut vegetables into a bowl. I lean over and grab a carrot, popping it in my mouth.
He turns and looks at me, raising an eyebrow.
I shrug. “They look edible the way you cut them.”
He shakes his head.
I squeeze his butt. “Don’t you want to know why I think you need an apron?”
“Sure, I’m dying to know.”
I let my hand trail between his legs to that spot I know he likes me to touch.
He sets the knife down and turns. He grabs my wrists and lets his tongue slip out of his mouth, wetting his lip. I’m getting wet just thinking about what I want him to do with that tongue.
“I thought you were hungry and you wanted to eat,” he growls in my ear.
“I am and I do. I just wanted to say you might want to wear an apron the next time you cook because I think you should be n*ked and this”—I rub myself against the erection I saw bloom the minute I sucked on the lemon—“might stand out.”
He grins, unashamed. “You noticed, did you?”
“Yep.”
He walks me backward away from the island and toward the bank of cabinets behind me. His hands go first to my waist, then my hips, and farther down. I wish I wasn’t wearing jeans. “Next time we cook together, you’re going to be wearing one of those little black-and-white maid outfits.”
“I don’t have anything that resembles an outfit like that.”
“You will,” he says with a sexy smile that sends tingles all the way down to my toes.
He kisses me a few times, on my mouth, my chin, my ear—a taste here and there.
“Ben.”
He doesn’t stop. My shoulder, my collarbone, my other shoulder. “Hmm?”
“You have to finish dinner,” I manage to say.
We have been taking turns cooking and sometimes we cook together. The problem with cooking together is we usually end up eating cold meals because we have a hard time concentrating on the food, like right now.
His mouth quirks up. “Okay, but you distracted me with the whole apron thing. And I know you just really want to wear one.”
I scoff. “How do you manage to always turn things around?”
He looks over at me, his eyes heavy lidded. God, what he can do to me with one look. I draw in a breath, squeezing my thighs together to control the pulsing.
He moves back to the island and turns the stove on. I want to tell him let’s skip dinner, but I’m also starving. He avoids making eye contact as he moves around. I’ve figured him out—it’s the only way to accomplish his task without distraction. I go about my own business. Back to the cutting board, where I continue slicing lemons.
When he looks up he sees me holding a lemon under my nose. His stare grows curious. “Okay, spill it.”
I give him a smile. “What?”
“Why are you smelling the lemon?”
I breathe it in again, but this time the smell I’ve always loved hits me in a sour way and almost makes me want to gag. The oil crackles from the wok and he momentarily drops his gaze and lowers the heat so he doesn’t notice. When he looks back up I outstretch my hand. “Here, smell it?”
His hand covers mine around the yellow oval. He inhales with an exaggerated whiff. “Okay, I give.”
I drop my hand and make a little noise, trying really hard not to sigh. “Argh . . . don’t you smell the lemony scent?”
“Yes, I smell it. I smell you. You know I love that scent, because I tell you that all the time. But if you want to know if one is ripe, you’re supposed to squeeze it, not smell it.”
I peel the skin back with my nails and toss it in the sink. I slip the tip of the wedge in my mouth, hoping it doesn’t make me gag again.
“Um . . . so good,” I say.
“I bet,” he teases, flinching at the thought of eating a lemon.
“Ben, it doesn’t matter what it tastes like. Don’t you know that when you eat a lemon it’s readily absorbed into your body and acts as a natural perfume? That’s why I always smell it before I eat it to make sure that’s what I want to smell like.”
“Fuck . . . sometimes you actually can make sense out of your nonsense,” he teases, grabbing another from the bowl and quickly slicing it into quarters and offering me the wedge with skin on. My lips circle his fingers and I put the piece in my mouth. I take my time, sucking all the juice, hollowing out my cheeks as I do. I know what I’m doing. He stays close even after I drain the liquid from the lemon. He puckers his own lips and I know exactly what he’s thinking. When I finish I take another quarter and hold it up for him to eat.
“I’m good.” He holds his hands up.
“Please try it. It tastes like lemonade.” I lick my lips.
He sighs in exaggeration. “If I do you’re going to owe me.”
I pop up on my toes. “I’ll let you pretend to be Tom Sawyer.”
“Huck Finn and you have a deal,” he counters with a devilish grin.
“You got it.” I hold the fruit to his lips.
With my fingers so close to his mouth, my breathing only hitches higher and so does his. The oil crackles and splatters from the wok, but neither of us moves as his hands find their magical way down my body. Drawn to each other as we always are, the magnetic pull gets stronger with each day we spend together. “I love you,” I say softly.
Suddenly there’s a tap at the glass doors from out in the family room. I turn with a jump and a screech to see the shadow of two people standing out on the deck—a silhouette of a man and a woman.
“You’re so f**king adorable,” Ben whispers in my ear.
p>
I stand back with my arms against the counter watching him as he dices the onions, chops the peppers, and juliennes the carrots.
“Show-off,” I mutter as he slices perfect rectangle wedges out of the last orange stick.
I take a sip of my drink and move closer. “I think you need an apron,” I whisper in his ear, and then nibble on it.
“I have to concentrate and with you doing that, it’s hard.”
I giggle.
He picks up the cutting board and pours all the perfectly cut vegetables into a bowl. I lean over and grab a carrot, popping it in my mouth.
He turns and looks at me, raising an eyebrow.
I shrug. “They look edible the way you cut them.”
He shakes his head.
I squeeze his butt. “Don’t you want to know why I think you need an apron?”
“Sure, I’m dying to know.”
I let my hand trail between his legs to that spot I know he likes me to touch.
He sets the knife down and turns. He grabs my wrists and lets his tongue slip out of his mouth, wetting his lip. I’m getting wet just thinking about what I want him to do with that tongue.
“I thought you were hungry and you wanted to eat,” he growls in my ear.
“I am and I do. I just wanted to say you might want to wear an apron the next time you cook because I think you should be n*ked and this”—I rub myself against the erection I saw bloom the minute I sucked on the lemon—“might stand out.”
He grins, unashamed. “You noticed, did you?”
“Yep.”
He walks me backward away from the island and toward the bank of cabinets behind me. His hands go first to my waist, then my hips, and farther down. I wish I wasn’t wearing jeans. “Next time we cook together, you’re going to be wearing one of those little black-and-white maid outfits.”
“I don’t have anything that resembles an outfit like that.”
“You will,” he says with a sexy smile that sends tingles all the way down to my toes.
He kisses me a few times, on my mouth, my chin, my ear—a taste here and there.
“Ben.”
He doesn’t stop. My shoulder, my collarbone, my other shoulder. “Hmm?”
“You have to finish dinner,” I manage to say.
We have been taking turns cooking and sometimes we cook together. The problem with cooking together is we usually end up eating cold meals because we have a hard time concentrating on the food, like right now.
His mouth quirks up. “Okay, but you distracted me with the whole apron thing. And I know you just really want to wear one.”
I scoff. “How do you manage to always turn things around?”
He looks over at me, his eyes heavy lidded. God, what he can do to me with one look. I draw in a breath, squeezing my thighs together to control the pulsing.
He moves back to the island and turns the stove on. I want to tell him let’s skip dinner, but I’m also starving. He avoids making eye contact as he moves around. I’ve figured him out—it’s the only way to accomplish his task without distraction. I go about my own business. Back to the cutting board, where I continue slicing lemons.
When he looks up he sees me holding a lemon under my nose. His stare grows curious. “Okay, spill it.”
I give him a smile. “What?”
“Why are you smelling the lemon?”
I breathe it in again, but this time the smell I’ve always loved hits me in a sour way and almost makes me want to gag. The oil crackles from the wok and he momentarily drops his gaze and lowers the heat so he doesn’t notice. When he looks back up I outstretch my hand. “Here, smell it?”
His hand covers mine around the yellow oval. He inhales with an exaggerated whiff. “Okay, I give.”
I drop my hand and make a little noise, trying really hard not to sigh. “Argh . . . don’t you smell the lemony scent?”
“Yes, I smell it. I smell you. You know I love that scent, because I tell you that all the time. But if you want to know if one is ripe, you’re supposed to squeeze it, not smell it.”
I peel the skin back with my nails and toss it in the sink. I slip the tip of the wedge in my mouth, hoping it doesn’t make me gag again.
“Um . . . so good,” I say.
“I bet,” he teases, flinching at the thought of eating a lemon.
“Ben, it doesn’t matter what it tastes like. Don’t you know that when you eat a lemon it’s readily absorbed into your body and acts as a natural perfume? That’s why I always smell it before I eat it to make sure that’s what I want to smell like.”
“Fuck . . . sometimes you actually can make sense out of your nonsense,” he teases, grabbing another from the bowl and quickly slicing it into quarters and offering me the wedge with skin on. My lips circle his fingers and I put the piece in my mouth. I take my time, sucking all the juice, hollowing out my cheeks as I do. I know what I’m doing. He stays close even after I drain the liquid from the lemon. He puckers his own lips and I know exactly what he’s thinking. When I finish I take another quarter and hold it up for him to eat.
“I’m good.” He holds his hands up.
“Please try it. It tastes like lemonade.” I lick my lips.
He sighs in exaggeration. “If I do you’re going to owe me.”
I pop up on my toes. “I’ll let you pretend to be Tom Sawyer.”
“Huck Finn and you have a deal,” he counters with a devilish grin.
“You got it.” I hold the fruit to his lips.
With my fingers so close to his mouth, my breathing only hitches higher and so does his. The oil crackles and splatters from the wok, but neither of us moves as his hands find their magical way down my body. Drawn to each other as we always are, the magnetic pull gets stronger with each day we spend together. “I love you,” I say softly.
Suddenly there’s a tap at the glass doors from out in the family room. I turn with a jump and a screech to see the shadow of two people standing out on the deck—a silhouette of a man and a woman.
“You’re so f**king adorable,” Ben whispers in my ear.
He makes his way toward the door, obviously knowing who it is.
“Who is that?” I’m wondering why they wouldn’t just ring the doorbell.
Ben slides open the door. “Caleb, where the f**k have you been?”
The two guys slap each other’s back in a semblance of a hug. I’ve met Caleb a number of times. However, I’ve never met the girl. She’s stunning. Dark hair, dark eyes, and very fit, much like Caleb. I walk toward them.
“I knocked, but . . . ,” Caleb starts to say but stops when his eyes cut to mine. And with his grin wide asks, “Bell, how are you?”
Ben reaches out and takes my hand.
I give Caleb a smile. “Good, really good.”
“This is Gemma. Gemma, this is my best friend in the world, Ben, and his . . .” He pauses for a brief moment.
“This is my girlfriend, Bell.”
My heart chases itself in circles at his introduction. “Hi, nice to meet you.” I smile like an idiot.
“We’re just making dinner. There’s plenty.”
Caleb glances in the kitchen. “Ben’s famous stir-fry—I’d love to but Serena and Jason are waiting dinner for us. I just wanted to stop by and say a quick hi and talk to Ben.”
He rocks back on his heels and tucks his hands in his pockets, obviously feeling uncomfortable.
“Well, how about something to drink?” I ask.
“I’d love a glass of water,” Gemma says.
“The same.” Caleb smiles.
I head to the kitchen, staring back at them. I see their gestures but can’t hear anything. Ben keeps staring at me and once I put ice and water in two glasses I hurry back in to figure out what’s going on. When I hand the waters to Caleb and Gemma, Ben opens his arms to fold me into them. With my head tight against his shoulder he kisses me and says to Caleb, “You know what, I’m good the way things are.”
There was a time I would have been eager for the story. But I went down that road once and I don’t ever want to go down it again. I know he’ll tell me as soon as I ask.
I look up. “What’s going on?”
He smiles down at me and kisses the tip of my nose. “Nothing. Caleb was just looking for some advice, but I can’t really help him.”
Caleb nods.
“I’ll be right back,” Ben says, and when he comes back he hands some kind of flash drive to Caleb. “Good luck, man.”
“Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”
We say our good-byes and once they leave through the front door, Ben looks over to me and sees my puzzled expression.
“He just needed some information that I had of his.”
“Okay.” It feels as though there’s more to the story, but Ben’s body language says it all. He’s quiet, serene, and I feel he needs me to just be here for him. Next, he pulls me close and holds me tight for a very long time. “I love you,” he says.
“I love you too.” I relish it when he tells me that because it isn’t often, but I know he means it, so I’m okay with that.
He pulls away. “Dinner can wait.”
I nod my agreement because there’s a different kind of hunger I’m feeling all the way to the depths of my soul.
He extends his hand and leads me up toward our room.
We start to make love and when he slowly slides inside me the only words out of mouth are “I love you.”
CHAPTER 37
Come to Me
Ben
We all want second chances. Perhaps we even all need them. But we don’t all get them. I know I’m one of the lucky ones. Caleb showing up last night proved it to me beyond any doubt. I’m happy with my life—more than happy. I open my eyes before the alarm clock goes off with those thoughts floating around my mind. I lift my head and reach for her, but she’s not lying beside me.
“S’belle,” I yell.
When she doesn’t answer I sit up and that’s when I hear it. The sound of her puking. I pull my boxers on and hurry into the bathroom. She’s wrapped up in her short pink robe kneeling in front of the toilet.
“Are you okay?” I squat beside her and hand her a towel.
She takes the towel and wipes her mouth. “No. I think those vegetables you made me eat gave me food poisoning.”
I try not to laugh. “I don’t think the vegetables would do that to you. Maybe the chicken, though? We did leave it on the counter a little longer than we should have. But I’m fine.”
She looks up at me. “Your stomach is probably used to it.”
This time I have to laugh at the pout on her face. “Come on. I’m putting you back to bed.” I feel her forehead. “You’re not warm, but it could still be the start of a bug. Stay home today.”
“I can’t stay home.”
“Yes, you can. If the boss gives you a free pass, you take it. If you feel better later, come in then.”
Once she falls back to sleep, I shower and take off for work. I call her when I arrive and she sounds really groggy. At noon I shoot her a text.
How are you feeling?
She responds:
Better. I’m going to stay home today, though. I’m trying to figure out something that Misty told me.
Misty?
The fortune-teller.
Oh, right. Explain to me later.
I roll my eyes at her craziness but smirk at the same time. Then I look over at Aerie. It’s her first day back in the office and there is a shit ton to catch up on. Sadly Jagger’s father passed last week. I accompanied S’belle to New York for the funeral. She had never met Jagger’s father and although I hadn’t either, being able to be there to support her cousin made her feel better and me feel a little closer to her family. The funeral did bring back many painful memories of my own mother’s death and so I spent a lot of that trip talking to S’belle about her. I think S’belle got to know the woman who loved me regardless of my flaws a little better. Then again I guess now that I think about it, S’belle has done the same thing.
