getaway to an island. A wicker ceiling fan turns lazily over the bed. The comforter is made neatly, black with a barely visible pattern of deep gray palm fronds. His pillows are fluffed, the requisite two, no decorative ones, in matching black pillowcases. The walls are a pale, pale green, and white-and-green vertical striped curtains hang from black iron rods. The floor is shining wood, the dresser a deeper tone of wood than the floor. A black wrought-iron mirror stands in one corner.
His fingers dance along my neckline, bringing my attention to him. “That okay with you?”
“What?” I’ve totally lost track of the conversation. Maybe I have some sort of protective mechanism to keep from anticipating what he’s going to do to me. It will be amazing, I’m sure, but suddenly everything is moving at warp speed. “You’re right.” My voice is slightly strangled. “I’m freaking out.”
He chuckles. “Tell me something I don’t know. Here’s the plan. You want to amend any of it, let me know.”
He doesn’t give me time to mentally brace before he outlines his plan.
“I’m going to take off your T-shirt and bra, kiss each of those nipples I’ve missed so much. Then I’m going to slip you out of those jeans and ask you to shimmy out of your panties. I can’t wait to see what color they are today, by the way.” He offers a devious wink.
I’m already warm and damp from what he’s saying, and he hasn’t said anything particularly dirty yet. Incredible.
“Then I’m going to ask you to lie on your back on the bed, and I’m going to kiss you here.” He cups my sex. “Fuck, Cris. You’re burning up down there.”
“I might die if you do that,” I whisper hoarsely. I’m not sure if I’m kidding or not.
“You won’t die. You might have to take a nap after, which is fine by me. I have a big bed.”
My mind is racing. No one has ever kissed me down there. I have always wanted to experience it. I’ve never pictured Benji doing that. I’ve pictured him—oh, trust me I have—but not doing that. I don’t know why. Maybe as a safeguard to keep my best friend and boss where he belonged. Maybe I was protecting myself by managing my expectations.
“What about your clothes?” I finger a button on his shirt.
“My eating you out doesn’t require clothing removal for me.”
My finger stills at his raw description.
“It’ll be sexier if I stay dressed. Think of it as being serviced by a concubine of sorts. I don’t expect anything in return.” His lips quirk. “At least not yet. You start feeling experimental, honey, sign me up.”
“You’re too much.” I palm my heated cheek and avert my eyes. “When did you become a…a”—I gesture at his long, strong body—“Casanova?” But I know. I’ve seen him schmooze at functions. I’ve watched him set a client at ease with a drink in his hand and a sparkle in his eye. I’ve seen him with the women he’s dated. He’s as smooth as Skippy peanut butter. He’s just never been that way with me.
“This is part of the deal,” I conclude. “The sexy version of you comes with the sex.”
“You wanted the package, Cris. This is it. Since you’re a fan of dirty talk, I’m obliging. I customize. No extra charge.”
His fingers go to the hem of my shirt and pull it off. My bra follows. As promised he bends and takes a nipple into his mouth, suckling it to a turgid peak while his hands dip into my pants. Over my panties his fingers gently move, and then my jeans are pushed past my hips and I lose his mouth. I kick off my shoes as he tugs my jeans and panties to the floor. He instructs, “Lie down on the bed.”
“On top of the covers, or…” I’m stalling. I both can’t wait and don’t want to rush. I already know it’ll be over too soon. I’m halfway to my second orgasm with Benjamin Owen, and he’s barely touched me.
“Your choice.”
He picks up my clothes and tosses them onto a dark green chair in the corner. He tucks my shoes under the chair. Once I’m settled on top of the comforter, he stalks over to me and puts a knee between mine on the bed.
“Spread.”
I loved that the first time he said it. I love it as much now. My body jolts as a rush of pleasure slides through me, as thick as honey. Slowly, I spread