by Daryl Banner
Am I making this chase too easy? Have I yet to pick up my proverbial jaw from the proverbial floor?
“I’m not sure I’d call it … cautiousness,” I reply.
“What, then?”
I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself, but all I inhale is his spicy cologne, his strong masculine scent, and whatever sexual voodoo he’s deliberately and pointedly emitting in my direction. I’ve never throbbed so hard in my pants and managed to somehow still walk like there’s totally not an enormous boner in my pants. I deserve a freaking reward.
“Well?” he prompts me. “If you’re not cautious or uptight, then what are you? This way.”
We turn a corner. The buildings are starting to look a lot nicer, taller, and fancier. I haven’t been in this part of the city. I do realize it’s only seven blocks in the opposite direction of the office and Elijah’s apartment, but it feels like a whole other world.
“Well, the sad thing is,” I tell him, “I’ve spent pretty much every minute of my life behind a desk studying for classes and living up to my ‘overachiever’ title I so valiantly earned after four years of straight A’s and Honors classes in high school.”
“So you’re a nerd. Congrats. So was I back in school.”
I snort and look away. “Somehow, I doubt that.”
“Oh really?” I hear the hint of laughter in his voice. “What kind of guy do I look like to you, then?”
The answer comes quick. “Like the popular guy everyone in the school knew and wanted to be around. You worked out six days a week. You were probably captain of some … team. You get what you want, you woo all the girls, and you make the nerds like me feel like we got no business lusting after boys like you.”
My eyes go wide and I stop. Did I really just say all that?
He turns to me, stopping as well. When I look up, I find a firm, stern, smoldering expression on his handsome face. His eyes are burning and dark with need. Did my answer turn him on?
Am I imagining all of this, or is this walking wet muscle dream actually into me?
“Guess you hit the nail right on the head,” he murmurs.
“I … was just channeling my own dumb angst.” I shrug it all off. “I don’t really think that’s who you are. In truth, I don’t have the first idea who you are. Or what you are. Or …” My face flushes. “Or even what your name is.” My jaw drops. Oh my God.
I’m going to his place and I don’t even know his name.
He leans my way, his muscular body eclipsing the light from a nearby streetlamp. “You can call me Ben.”
“Trevor,” I say right back. “My name is Trevor.”
He extends a hand. Considering how close he’s standing to me, he doesn’t have to extend it very far. “Nice to meet you, totally-not-uptight-nerd Trevor.”
I chuckle once, then straighten my face. I can’t let my guard down too quickly; I still don’t really know this guy. “The pleasure is all mine,” I return, “Mister Cocky-Popular-Guy Ben.”
Our palms kiss and our fingers meet in the firmest, strongest, most sensual handshake I’ve ever known.
My insides are wrung like a rag when his skin touches mine. My cock aches desperately, urgently begging to be freed. My heart is in my throat. My pits are sweating so bad, they feel cold.
Ben lets go of my hand, then tilts his head a bit and nods across the street. “We’re here.”
After gathering my guts, I follow the beautiful man into the building. I don’t even know what it looks like on the outside. I’m completely blinded by him as my eyes train on his tight, firm ass in those sexy slacks of his as he leads the way into the big, tiled lobby, which I’m all but ignoring as I become lost in how tightly his pants encase the big, chiseled muscles of his thighs that lead up to the two beautiful globes of his butt.
I’m so ashamed of the thoughts I’m having of burying my face between those beefy, beautiful cheeks.
After we pass a desk with a security guard—Goodness, this place is fancy—we stop in front of an elevator where he hits the button and turns around. I flick my eyes up from his ass too late. A cocky smirk curls the corner of his full, sexy lips.
I’m pretty sure he caught me staring.
I swallow hard. This isn’t gonna be easy. I might come in my pants if he smirks at me like that one more time. I’m not exaggerating.
In the elevator, I’m staring at my reflection in the mirrored wall. “Nice building you live in,” I note dreamily.
“Nice …?”
“Really nice,” I amend. The night breeze did something to my hair. I brush a few strands off of my forehead, then note how nervous my eyes look. Maybe I should text Elijah. That would put me at ease. I pull out my phone and quickly shoot him a message, telling him what I’m up to and that I’ll be home later. Then I wonder if that’s even true. Will I be expected to stay over, or will I be kicked out? How does this work? I have no idea about anything at all.
When I look up from my phone, Ben is watching me with a knowing smirk.
I hate how he acts all cocky, like he knows everything.
I love how he acts all cocky, like he knows everything.
The elevator doors part. There’s a short hall that leads to one single door. Strange.
Ben strolls right up to that door and punches in a code. Then, like an afterthought, he turns to face me. “I ought to warn you. I have a dog, and he’s not very fond of strangers.”
“Th-That’s okay. I’m used to animals hating me,” I inform him with loving thoughts of my roommate’s evil orange-and-white cat Salamander, who peed in one of my three pairs of work shoes on Thursday. “I’ll keep my distance.”
“Oh, no. I didn’t mean he’s dangerous. Far from. He won’t bite. He never bites. Just don’t take it personally if he doesn’t warm up to you all that fast, alright?”
I nod and thrust my hands in my pockets.
He opens the door, and in we go.
To say his home is spacious would be a gross understatement. It is staggeringly big, breathy, and open. The brief front entryway spills into a humungous living room lined with floor-to-ceiling windows twice as tall as I am, and a hall that goes off somewhere. Up above, I spot a long chrome banister that reveals a second floor accessible by a spiral staircase at the entryway. A kitchen throws dim, pale light across the clean space, its bar counter open toward the living room. There’s a dining area by the kitchen, which has a table long enough to seat three whole families and their plus-ones, likely. In the semidarkness, the shiny marble tiles below glimmer as they drink up and reflect whatever crystalline bits of light they find—their only source, the kitchen at the moment.
Like a moth to a flame, I follow Ben into said kitchen with my jaw all but dragging along the floor. I don’t want to seem shocked, so I maintain a cool expression of indifference, despite feeling like I’d just stumbled into some celebrity’s secret palace in the sky.
Ben—somehow freed from the sexy tight confines of that blue blazer, which he likely took off while I was busy drooling over his less-than-humble abode, and now sporting just his distractingly tight white button shirt that showcases every muscle in his body—turns around from the counter to face me. “Red or white?”
“I think that shirt’s f-fine,” I stammer. “White suits you.”
“Wine,” he clarifies, giving the side of a bottle that’s suddenly in his hand a hearty tap. “Unless you’re more of a beer guy …?”
His pecs look so amazing in that shirt that it’s the only place my mind and eyes went to.
“Red or white … or beer?” he asks patiently.
I blink away the image of him that’s scorching me, my face burning red. “Oh. Sorry. Red. White. Beer. Any. I don’t know.”
He lets out one breathy chuckle. “Relax. I’m more of a wine guy, so we’ll go with that. I’ll pick for you.”
“You have a really big—” Ben turns back to the counter to get the wine open. His white shirt is still tucked into his slacks with a belt, which sho
ws off his beautiful tight glutes in all their glory. My eyes instantly flick to them, my heart racing with desire. “B-Big place,” I finish, my eyes glued helplessly to his butt.
I’ve never wanted to grab something more in my life.
Shamelessly. Feverishly. Greedily.
I literally might be salivating.
“It’s comfy,” he replies nonchalantly, his back still turned as he coaxes the cork out of the bottle. I watch the tight shirt revealing all his back muscles going to work as he screws and twists and pulls the corkscrew. His butt does a little wiggle when the cork is finally freed, which is as sexy as it is adorable—and it does nothing to lessen my insane, growing desire to grab that ass. I’m hypnotized.
“So … you live here alone?” I ask, still staring.
He reaches up and fetches two glasses from a shelf—his place is so modern and fancy, his kitchen cabinets don’t have doors—then turns around with the bottle in one hand and the two glasses pinched in the other. I look up just in time to not get caught staring again. “Just Lance and I.”
I blink. “Lance?”
“My dog. Lancelot.”
He sets the glasses on the kitchen island between us and proceeds to pour a little bit of red wine into each glass. He sets the bottle down, then gently starts to roll up his sleeves. Just the act of watching him remove his shiny cufflinks and meticulously fold the sleeves up—as the strong cords of his forearm muscles dance and tighten and flex—makes my breathing shallow with need.
I thought I’d just calmed down. I thought my teenage-caliber boner had finally gone away, allowing me the privilege of being an actual adult tonight. Nope. Ben won’t allow it. It’s returned with a great and throbbing vengeance.
He takes a glass. I peel my eyes off of his muscular forearms and clumsily snatch my own, nearly knocking it off the counter in the process. “Bottoms up,” I mutter for a toast, then belatedly think to add a, “Th-Thank you for the wine,” before bringing it to my lips and chugging.
Yeah, I don’t daintily sip. I don’t taste the wine at all. I don’t appreciate the fine hints of blackberry, grape, or clove.
I treat it like a shot and chug it down frat-boy style.
When I set down my empty glass, Ben is staring at me, still not having taken a sip of his own. His eyes are wide, eyebrows raised.
I frown. “What’re you looking at?”
He chuckles, shakes his head, then takes a little sip of his own glass, not answering.
I don’t know if, due to the limited amount of times I actually partake of alcohol, my head is already spinning from that one big gulp, or if my tipsiness is just a fluke of psychology. No matter the reason, I’m equipped with a sudden stroke of courage. I reach for the bottle. It’s cool to the touch, strong as the man who poured from it.
Ben watches, studying me over the rim of his glass as I refill mine—twice as much as before—while keeping my stony gaze on him. I feel superior suddenly with his attention caught—powerful. When I glance back down, feeling cool as shit, I panic and stop pouring suddenly, wide-eyed; my glass is nearly overflowing.
“Ambitious,” notes Ben when he sets down his glass, which still contains half of his first helping. “Hope you plan to drink all of that. Can’t let this wine go to waste.”
“Oh, this old stuff?” I throw at him, feeling smart, patting the bottle. “You can pick this up for ten dollars at Wal-Mart. Big deal.”
“Ten dollars a bottle … or six hundred and ninety-nine dollars a bottle. Yeah, big deal,” agrees Ben with a shrug and a smirk.
I freeze. I was about to pick up my glass and resume chugging without a care, but suddenly I’m staring at the amount I’ve poured and approximating how much each sip is worth. Is he messing with me? Now I’m wondering how practical it is to pour it all back in.
“Don’t worry,” says Ben. “That bottle was just a gift. I’ve been waiting for an excuse to open and drink the damned thing.”
“Picking up a twenty-year-old at the bar was your excuse?” I tease back, though my voice reflects a certain nervousness.
His eyes flash. “You’re twenty?”
“Twenty-four,” I blurt, lying, watery-eyed. “Twenty-f-f-five in four weeks. Birthday soon. The wine’s making my head spin.”
Ben’s eyebrows pull together pensively as he stares at me like he’s trying to figure me out. “Twenty-five …?”
“Yeah. And what’re you? Twenty-six? Twenty-seven?”
To that, Ben only bellows out one solid, gutty chuckle, then takes another sip, perhaps to avoid answering the question.
I’m such an idiot. Why did I lie? Was I afraid he’d ditch me the moment he realized how young I was? Wouldn’t my young age be more of a turn-on than a turn-off?
This, right here, is proof that I have no business dating. I don’t know the first thing about anything, as is evidenced by my incessant bumbling and stupidity. I went home with a random guy. Okay, a very, very hot random guy. Now I’m guzzling his billion dollar wine and pretending to know what the hell my plan here is.
Am I seriously expecting to hand over my V-card to this man tonight?
More importantly, would he even want it?
“Eyes are bigger than your stomach,” he teases, eyeballing my glass.
I straighten up. “Speak for yourself.” Figuring myself to be committed to what I’ve poured, I grip the glass carefully, ready to lift it to my mouth. Then I realize that with the wine dancing right at the brim of the glass, I’ll probably spill it if I try to pick it up. So I bend over and carefully sip from the brim while it still rests on the counter. The wine burns as it goes down, gulp by gulp.
“Smooth moves, stud,” murmurs Ben, egging me on.
Something about his voice makes my cock flex yet again. I squeeze my legs together tighter and shake away all my dirty thoughts. Maybe the wine is keeping the thoughts ever there, like an evil friend with bad ideas. Does wine work that way?
“So what did you see when you looked across the club?” he asks me.
I rise from my awkward bent-over position, having sucked down another half glass of wine. I decide to make a joke. “I saw a man in a cheap suit,” I answer, lifting my eyebrows superiorly.
Seriously?
He appears amused by my insult. I don’t know whether I find that relieving or annoying, how difficult it is to ruffle him.
“Cheap?” He chuckles. “A two thousand dollar suit is cheap?”
I have to bite my tongue to keep from gawking. He has to be toying with me. There is no way his suit costs that much.
Six hundred dollar wine … big fancy apartment … Then again.
Blaming the liquid courage of a few gulps of wine, I decide to play right back with him. “I have high standards.”
The corner of his lip curls. “Guess I should’ve worn my three thousand dollar suit, then.”
I run the back of my wrist over my mouth, but it comes back dry. My eyes linger on his until I realize he’s not looking away.
His smile has faded, too.
I swallow. The wine, I’m late to realize, isn’t doing anything to calm my system like I thought it would. It just continues to spin my head around and around, and my heart races just the same.
And my eyes lock on his—on Ben’s.
He comes around the island and stands by me. His gaze is so intense, I feel myself shrinking in my shoes—while something else grows in my pants, tighter, tighter, throbbing and aching and desperate to be freed.
The closer he gets to me, the dizzier I feel.
He’s stunning. He’s a god. How can a man like that possibly be into me? I don’t deserve this experience—if that’s what I can call it. I don’t deserve—
Oh, God. He’s unbuttoning his shirt.
I breathe so heavily, I can hear my own breaths as they fill the space between him and I.
The buttons keep popping open, one by one, and his wicked smirk continues to melt me by the second. I feel heat coming off his body, the heat of his in
tent.
What is his intent?
His shirt slips off, but not easily. It’s a very muscular effort, yet he makes it seem smooth as a cat, considering how desperately his tight sleeves cling to his enormous biceps and thick, muscled shoulders.
This man is of a caliber I am not equipped to handle.
The panic comes to a boil within me. I can’t contain it. “Stop,” I beg him, the word jumping out of me like an alarm. “Please. Stop. I … I can’t. I—”
“Oh, I can stop,” he assures me. His hands drop to his sides almost lazily, his every movement slow and sensual. His white button shirt now hangs from one of his strong fists, balled up. His shoulders are cocked slightly to one side as he observes me with his fierce face and piercing eyes.
I open my mouth to thank him, but find myself in a trance as I stare, mesmerized, at his broad and muscled pecs. Ink decorates one half of his chest and shoulder, crawling down his arm partway and skipping down the side of his ripped, tanned abdomen. This man, this wealthy, sexy man has such an air of mystery around him. I have no idea who he is, where he comes from, why he’s here—and most importantly, what he wants to do with me.
I’m drawn into the intense and striking mystery that is Ben, helpless to escape the hold he has on me.
“Question is,” he goes on, his voice silky smooth and languid, “do you want me to stop?”
I lift my eyes to his. “No,” I confess, one little word to seal my fate, before his lips descend on mine.
6
Benjamin goes for the gold.
When our lips crash together, all the anxiety of this past week drops to the floor, and the only thing I know is how fucking sweet this boy tastes.
He’s sugar to me.
I slide a hand around his lower back and pull him against my body with force. He’s so hard, I feel him through both the fabric of his pants as well as my own.
And if he knows anything by what’s pressing against his waist right now, it’s that I’m just as hard for him.
He moans deeply, every one of his breaths crashing like ocean waves against my face and drowning the room. He smells so sweet, like a thousand calorie delicacy I shouldn’t have, but it’s too late; I’ve already spooned my first taste.
