“I’ll take that as a thank you,” she laughed. “You’re welcome…you are welcome…”
She crawled into his lap, their bodies melding and settling into one flesh, his recovering body and her recovering body breathing together. He wrapped his arms around her and held on to her as they breathed in and out, one flesh by the fire.
“I haven’t been with anyone in two years,” she whispered, not facing him.
He didn’t know how to respond. Two years.
The intimacy of the confession worked on his heart and he moved her to the side so he could see her face.
She frowned, the lines returning.
“Hey, hey,” Benson said, hating how all the work he’d done to make those worries disappear came undone so quickly. “Don’t frown. There’s no shame in that.”
“Work and—”
“There’s no shame in that,” he repeated. He leaned and kissed her cheek, his lips brushing against the saltiness of her skin. He ran a finger down her shoulder and she shifted away, his finger tickling her.
“It becomes a thing, you know. All that time. Wondering if you’re desirable…”
“You?” Benson couldn’t hide his shock. He guffawed. “You don’t think you’re desirable?”
She averted her eyes, shoulders slumped. “Well. You know.”
“No. I don’t know,” he answered in a pointed gawk. He motioned for her to explain it to him. “You don’t look in the mirror and see yourself? I mean…”
“Look. I think I’m a good attorney. I think I’m powerful…smart. Kind to my clients and fair. But…”
“No but. You’re beautiful, Annie. And crazy intelligent. Fun. And fucking desirable in every way. You’re beautiful.”
“That’s the orgasm talking,” she tried to dismiss his compliment and rolled her eyes. “Post-blow-job. I get it. The flattery. Don’t worry yourself over it.”
Her shrinking self-worth was a stab in the heart. And he tried not to look huffy as he turned her head with his pointer finger and brought her nose to nose with him, forcing her eyes to lock with his.
He noticed that her body stiffened, uncomfortable by his praise, by his intensity of bestowing it on her. He didn’t understand the shift; had he given her some reason to doubt him?
Benson whispered, his heart racing. “You were pure confidence before. Pure unadulterated, brilliance. And now…you don’t think you’re beautiful?”
Their eyes remained locked.
“You don’t think you’re fucking amazing?”
“Maybe it’s easy for you…”
“Stop,” Benson interrupted, seeing quickly where her insecure thinking was taking her. He shifted underneath her and tapped her ass to move, and then he sat facing her on the rug. He shrugged out of his shirt before continuing. Annie’s frowning face looked at him even as her eyes sparkled, full of mischief and thoughts she wasn’t sharing with him.
“I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” Annie tried to say. She raised her shoulders up in a half-shrug and held them there, wondering what to say next.
“You don’t want to talk about it.” Her shoulders lowered.
“I don’t want to talk,” she said with a sigh out her nose and a wistful expression playing on her face. Then she realized herself and snapped back, apologetic. “That’s not what I meant…I just mean. I talk all day to people, ask questions and work and deal and it’s usually me, all the time, in my brain, planning the next thing to say. I’m tired of talking.”
As if on cue, Benson felt his groin pull downward and his cock tic up in response to her declaration. He could think of a million things to do with Annie that didn’t involve talking.
Annie saw him grow and she dipped her head.
“You don’t want to talk either?” she asked and leaned forward, her tits dangling. She crawled the six inches between them and nestled her naked ass in his lap, wiggling around a bit to tease his aching dick as she straddled him.
Slowly, Benson shook his head. “I’ll do whatever you tell me to do, Annie-Baby.”
She nibbled his ear, a hand slipping down his chest. He brought her upward and sucked her nipple, then the other, each one standing at attention quickly, her body glistening. And as he kissed her stomach, a growl erupted—loud and mean—and it thundered between them.
“Jesus,” Benson said with a laugh, but it didn’t detour his thoughts of getting inside her.
“Wait,” Annie said and scrambled down off his lap to his body’s immediate dismay.
She worked her way back to the coffee table, her ass a specimen, and grabbed both bowls of pasta, bringing them over to the fire, handing him his bowl and then taking her own. She sat down next to him knee-to-knee. It was the best kind of tease.
“Dinner break,” she announced with a wink and sunk her fork into the dish. He watched as her face went through its second transformation of the evening as her ecstasy over the simple dinner moved through her like a wave.
Annie Gerwitz sat naked on his floor and ate his pasta, her body glistening, her smile wide. It was the same smile he’d spied that first night—four glasses of wine in her little body, the ocean waves tumbling toward her feet. The giddiness of a moment free of expectations at her fingertips, and there she shone under the moon. His heart knew then what he definitely knew now: she was everything and everywhere and he wasn’t going to let her run away so easily.
The woman, perfect before him, wanted an adventure, not a husband. He watched her devour the dish they’d made together and as he leaned forward to wipe away a small drip of oil on her chin, she paused and looked at him with her big eyes, her blond hair flashing orange and yellow and moving in the shadows. His heart caught in his chest—because he knew she let him see her real self. Every imperfect piece of Annie had been laid before him and he didn’t care.
Benson wanted Annie let go and embrace the world; a world he knew would embrace back, no matter the path she chose for her life. He also knew there was no stopping him now—he was falling hard for this girl and she was only going to break his heart.
Chapter Thirteen
Annie wanted to tell the world.
She felt like screaming it into the sea and broadcasting it on the radio.
Hello, my name is Annie. I’m twenty-seven years old and a man just ate me out in front of a fire at his house on the beach, instilling inside my pussy some kind of performance bar from here on out, because he ALSO made me fucking pasta. I’m living my best life. Thank you.
But she couldn’t tell anyone about Benson.
Fuck. She couldn’t tell anyone. Ever. About Benson.
Benson. Notanyoneanyoneanyoneanyone. God, if her father found out she was sleeping with a journalist?
The beautiful man who nibbled the inside of her thigh and buried himself inside of her like he was the master of his domain, licking little circles against her sex, creating a cavern of need only penetration could fill and when his fingers slipped inside her, two, three, and simulated a hard cock, rocking inside her body. She was remembering and it was exhilarating to think of it all, recalling how comfortable the whole thing felt.
He’d even made sure she came first; and he didn’t initiate a blow job, but shit—her heart rate was still climbing and that was the only thing that felt like a true thank you. Annie had to admit he’d awoken something inside of her that now needed, like a compulsion, to give back. His lips on hers, she’d decided; she’d put her lips on him—she’d employ her shoddy, but practical oral sex tips; all the ones she gleaned from sexy magazines when she was a virginal teen. She reminded herself about the teeth, worked her tongue in broad strokes, treated the tip carefully and used her hands.
If Benson could tell she was a novice at sucking cock, his orgasm didn’t really mind. She felt so proud of swallowing him down, taking all of him and proving her worth; owning every moment of his shuddering body, his groan, his swearing and calling her name. It felt so fucking formidable.
Afterward, while their bodies were sti
ll putting themselves back together, piece by piece, she’d ran her hand through his hair, down his hairless chest, and into his trimmed pubic hair and back, taking in the whole of him. He cared about himself—he took care of his skin and his hair and he had the scent of someone who always assumed he’d be in close proximity to another human.
Her mind kept replaying the whole moment.
Orgasms weren’t elusive for Annie, she loved sex, but she had a two-year man drought. Or 893 days to be precise. The last penis she’d kissed, caressed, allowed inside her was a private detective she’d hired to help her on some cases. She dated him on and off and thought he was going to propose. Her friends offered to run some recon to find out proposal plans with their own PI from the Love is Murder Social Club. And Erin, God bless her, unwittingly uncovered his hidden family.
When she told all her boyfriend stories out loud, she understood with more clarity why her parents didn’t trust her to get married on her own.
Everyone clapped Christmas morning when she opened her Twoly subscription, the folder explaining the perks: you will end this journey with a partner. She didn’t understand later why she’d gone into the bathroom and cried; she blamed the eggnog and sympathy pregnancy hormones since two of her sisters-in-law were pregnant. But no. It was shame—they didn’t think she had it in her.
The last time she’d even kissed a boy it had gone terribly wrong: she’d made out with a dude with a long beard in a bar a year or so ago and threw herself at him in an attempt to get him home. Her need for sex that night outweighed public shame.
Then she threw up in a bush outside the bar and when he took her to a secondary place to sober up before taking her back to his place (classy guy, at least), they happened upon a horrendous open-mic night and Annie—according to texts the following morning—heckled the performers and got them kicked out.
She woke up the next morning in her own bed and hazy memories and a series of texts summed up with: Don’t call.
After the failure, she threw herself into work and friends and contemplated puppy adoption.
Annie was at war within herself.
At one end, there was the promise she made and the life she’d chosen as the baby Gerwitz and the only daughter—an arranged marriage of sorts. Her loans and the empires she was expected to help govern meant she needed a special type of man. But Annie knew she could be happy with someone like Benson—someone who offered her a beer and sex and pasta as the answer to a day filled with roadblocks and anger. Of course, she wondered if that meant she hadn’t matured at all and Benson was, instead, some sort of latent, misplaced rebellion.
She wondered if later she’d say to herself: You missed all the red flags.
Trust the damn process.
She’d hoped after the dinner break, she could lead him to the bedroom and act out some additional fantasies. Sex on the beach always sounded more sandy than she wanted and it was February and raining.
But sex in the jet tub sounded fun.
Annie learned early that she was charming and somewhat magical with getting some men’s attention. She wasn’t proud of it, but it didn’t help that her brothers noticed every wayward eye and every comment about her ass or her boobs by kids at school got back to them and the originators were publically humiliated. The aggressive nature of keeping boys away from her drove her to think of dating as a game from early on.
Loving guys in secret was a specialty of hers.
She was good at many things: Debate; Cooking; Mariokart; Attracting unwanted attention on public transit and calculating percentages in her head. She had a head full of incredible facts about Kevin Bacon and could drink her colleagues in the public defender’s office under the table.
She was especially good at getting all the wrong boys to fall in love with her.
She liked how he seemed so perplexed by her all the time and the way he couldn’t quite understand what she was doing. She knew exactly what she was doing. She was using him for fun and to fulfill her own needs, while staying the course. That was what trusting the process meant.
Benson had taken the empty pasta bowls and stood, naked, to clean the kitchen.Annie approached him and leaned in to kiss his arm before helping put the ingredients back into various cupboards. When they were done, she sidled up next to him, tucking her arms around his body and nestling herself into the small of his back. She inhaled his scent. Fire and earth.
From across the room, her phone vibrated and since Benson seemed intent on scrubbing the pan in his birthday suit, humming a jaunty tune, she left him at the sink, slapping his ass gently as she left, and went to check the message.
Her heart jolted a bit at the words on her screen.
Rylan: A confirmed match for tomorrow night. His name is Josh Jones. Per his request, the date begins at the Cannon Beach Whale statue an hour before sundown. Which is confirmed tomorrow for 5:23pm. Be there at 4:30.
Annie’s hand hovered over the reply button.
“Who’s that?” Benson asked from the kitchen.
Annie slid the phone into her purse and turned it to Do-Not-Disturb. “Work,” she said with a smile. “Always work.”
And in some ways, it didn’t feel like lying.
The next day, Annie stood shivering next to the whale statue and watched as the sun dipped further into the winter sky, the clouds a potential barrier to her view. Josh. The name felt kinda hollow and flat—like a frat guy or a mortgage broker—not a name that was fun to introduce to her friends. Rylan offered her nothing on the potential date and she’d kept the entire thing hidden from Benson as their evening progressed.
Another round of sex didn’t happen. They devolved into talking about the Schubert files and her father’s ulterior motives and then he walked her to her car, kissed her, touched her ass a bit, and sent her on her two-minute drive down Hemlock Ave to her own apartment.
The entire evening was now a blur of bodies and food and standing for sixty seconds on a welcome mat debating about whether or not to run away.
Now, at the whale statue, she turned her body away from the street, hopeful that if Benson found himself passing by he wouldn’t see or notice her at all waiting for her date. She knew it was foolish to fear him finding out that she was moving forward with the service—she’d said as much and been clear about it. But she began to feel a twinge of guilt as four-twenty rolled by and instead of anticipating her date, she was reminiscing about Benson’s tongue flicking against her clit, her underwear growing wet just by recalling the moment.
“Annie?” a deep voice called from the dusk of the street.
She turned.
Josh was short and was wearing a jacket tailored too large for his frame—he swam in the coat as he walked forward carrying a giant bouquet of flowers. She embraced him and took the bouquet, confirming she was Annie and he hooked her arm and directed her to the coastline, preparing for a sunset, already turning the clouds pink.
It was a beautiful sunset, given an assist by the clouds, and she wanted to take a picture. She wondered if Benson could see it, too.
“I’ve planned the whole evening,” Josh said with a clap. She turned to him and nodded, a kind smile on her face, and he didn’t seem to notice or mind that she wasn’t talking much. “Why don’t you slip off your shoes and take a walk with me.”
It was then Annie noticed a young woman walk up to the two of them carrying a picnic basket. She bowed slightly and left it at Josh’s feet and he picked it up and swung it on his arm. “If you get cold, I have a blanket.”
The woman picked up her shoes.
“Oh, um,” Annie fumbled, realizing this was the only thing she’d said to him so far. “I’m fine. Thank you. Who was that?”
“My assistant,” Josh said without explanation and with his hand already seeking Annie’s, he led her down the small pathway to the sand. From there he took the lead and marched across the expanse of dry sand and waited, the wind whipping his jacket and his hair in every direction.
Annie stood
next to him as he set the picnic basket down and checked a message on her cell phone. She cleared her throat once and then twice as her own hair flapped mercilessly in the wind. It wasn’t a beach day and Annie couldn’t imagine how a picnic blanket would be a fun date in February.
As she formed an argument to head somewhere else, she heard a deep rumble from somewhere up the beach. Trained since childhood to prepare for the great Cascadia earthquake and tsunami, Annie initially feared natural disaster. But the rumble grew closer and louder, turning from a distant chop to a melodic thawp-thawp-thawp. Twenty yards away from them, a helicopter landed on the beach and Josh grabbed the picnic basket, offered his hand and gestured to the metal machine waiting for them.
“Don’t worry,” he said, apparently sensing worry in her face. “I’ll have you back before midnight if you turn into a pumpkin…”
“It’s, um,” she cleared her throat again and tried to relax her expression, “so extravagant. I’ve never done anything like this before.”
Josh smiled, pleased with himself, and held Annie’s hand as he helped her into the belly of the helicopter.
“Put on your headphones, here, and buckle up, and this is our pilot for the evening, my friend, and this is my helicopter. Here,” he uncorked a bottle of Prosecco and poured her a bubbling glass. “Cheers.”
The helicopter lifted off the beach and circled around Haystack Rock and Ecola State Park before hovering above the sea, the slow sunset playing out all around her. Annie was in awe. Not with Josh, he was fine, but with the spectacle of the gesture for someone he didn’t even know.
She couldn’t help but employ a healthy dose of cynicism—and underneath it all, she wanted to text Benson. Oh my God. I’m in a helicopter with a stranger. She thought he’d find the details funny, like out of a reality television episode. He’d want her to slow down and take in the details, so she did.
Savage Distractions (The Love is Murder Social Club Book 3) Page 15
