A deep rumble came from Ben’s chest, and then his mouth was on me there. All over me, devouring, licking, nipping. With a long swipe, he released my most sensitive spot from his mouth, and said, “I’m sorry if I’m rushing you. I had to taste you. I’ve been waiting . . . well, years.”
He didn’t say another word until I came apart, all over his mouth, face, tongue, whatever you want to call it. It had never happened like that for me. This was a rebirth or something. Sometime between Ben spinning my back toward the door and now, I’d become a highly sexual woman.
After sliding my panties back in place and pulling my jeans up, Ben rose to his feet and trailed a long line of kisses over my collarbone and up my neck, finally landing on my mouth. He tasted like me, and it was so intimate, I thought I might combust.
“See?” he said, smiling against my lips. “Not only am I not staying over, but I’m not even seeing your bed.”
“What about you?” My head spun with confusion. I’d never been in an intimate situation where sex or intimacy wasn’t quid pro quo.
“What about me?”
Running my hand up and down his back, I said softly, “You. Pleasing you.”
Ben gave me a quick squeeze. “Next time. This way we don’t run out of time. If there’s always something left to look forward to, there will never be a last time.”
Then he kissed me and said thank you—when it should have been me doing the thank-yous—before he slipped out the door and into the night.
In a haze, I walked toward my bathroom and peed, but refused to wash my face or brush my teeth or shower. I wanted to hold on to everything about that experience for as long as I could.
17
Murphy
I couldn’t believe that Ben had gone down on me. That’s what the cool kids called it these days, not the high-society ladies, but I wasn’t one of those anymore. Back in New York, prior to the fiasco, I dated guys my mom had picked for me. They gave what I called a smidge of oral to receive a healthy helping of it themselves. It was perfunctory, at best.
And yes, I thought in Ivy League vocabulary, even when I was thinking of oral sex.
Anyway, now that I’d experienced what I’d been searching for when I signed up for online dating—to be utterly devoured—I’d resisted showering as long as possible, but decided one was in order when Hunnie texted me the next morning.
I’m making a new concoction and never had anyone taste test for me. Come over?
A small smile split my face. No one had ever asked me for my honest opinion before. Ever.
Instead of being truthful, I texted back.
How do you know I’m not at the Bean?
Because I just ran (okay, I drove) into Colebury for some cupcakes for later, and I stopped into the Bean. Ben was there.
I told myself not to take the bait. Hunnie was fishing, and I was too easy to lure in.
Sure, I’ll come by.
Heard you went to the drive-in. Ben said it was a late night and he needed a pick-me-up before picking up his nephew for an overnight.
I’d already shrugged off my clothes and was jumping in the shower with my hair in a topknot when her last text pinged my phone. After a quick rinse, I threw on capri leggings and a loose tank, shoved my feet into flip-flops, Hunnie and her footwear judginess be damned. Grabbing a sweater for later, I dug into my purse for my lipstick.
Happy that I needed to actually get dressed, I completely ignored Hunnie’s prying and decided to head over to her place for an in-person inquisition. Except when I pulled up in front of her she-shed, I wanted to turn around when a realization hit me.
I’d never had a friend I could talk freely with . . . I was taught to always be on guard. Was I supposed to just chat openly? Using crass language? Of course, we did that in high school in the privacy of our dorm rooms, teenage girls trying on new personalities and expressions.
“Get in here,” Hunnie called out as she opened her door.
Grabbing my sweater from the passenger seat, I rolled my eyes. As if Hunnie was going to let me escape.
Dressed in cutoffs, a loose black long-sleeved tee falling off her shoulder, and an apron in a cute bee pattern, Hunnie totally looked the part of honey infusionist. Secretly, I wished to be that cool. Although, I wasn’t jealous.
“Now that’s what I would call sexy country chic, and I mean that in a very good way,” I told her as I stepped onto her porch.
“Why, thank you. I see you’re done with your white shorts.”
“After you put me in my place.”
“Whatever. Get in here and spill.” She waved me inside and shut the door.
“Do you really need me to taste something?” I dropped onto her couch and watched her flit around the room like a bumblebee herself.
“Yes, I’m not a liar. But I want to hear about the drive-in too,” she said while risking her life on a stepstool. She appeared to be climbing the shelves to the right of her kitchen, one toe on the stool, the other on a shelf as she tried to reach something at the top.
“Wait,” I yelped, and she nearly fell.
Holding on to the shelf for dear life, she turned to me with huge eyes. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“No . . . sorry. Hold that thought and stay right there. This is such a perfect shot of you. Wearing that outfit and scurrying around—you embody your brand right now.”
I ran out the door
