I shake my head. Paralyzed by his intensity.
“Numbers never lie. So I’ll give you the numbers.”
I’m not sure I follow, but I’m riveted.
“Four. That’s how many seconds passed between your yes and the moment I slid my hand into your panties. One. How many fingers it took to take you there. Six. The number of times your eyelids fluttered when you came on my hand. Three. How many times you moaned while you were coming.” He’s leaning close, talking quiet. My breathing has escalated like I’m jogging instead of sitting still.
“Two,” he murmurs next. “How many fast breaths you just took. Kiss me, Firecracker. No one’s paying attention.”
I can’t resist so I do as he asks, my eyes closed, my lips parted. He’s proven wrong a moment later when our waitress interrupts. She loudly settles a plate filled with ramekins onto the table. In those ramekins are sauces in an array of colors.
“Here you go,” she announces, before asking if there is anything else. There’s not, so she moves away from our table.
Benji dips a finger into a creamy aioli and sucks it clean. He’s smiling when he asks, “What do you say, Cris? Should we try a bit of everything?”
I swallow thickly. And then smile as I nod.
Yes. Hell yes.