Chapter Twelve
Benji
Cris is sitting at her desk, Chuck Taylors off. One leg is folded, her bare foot hanging off the edge of the chair, the other is on the floor, toes pointed.
Her thumb is between her teeth as she concentrates, and her pale, curly hair is hiding half her face. Her shirt is loose and floral-patterned. Her jeans strategically ripped.
She’s the sexiest woman to grace my bedsheets, and I haven’t even slept with her. Yet. I can’t wrap my head around how attracted I am to her. Before I delighted both of us with her four orgasms, she was my cute, sweet, irreplaceable best friend who, yes, I found attractive. Now she’s all those things, but also makes me hard and distracts me in a way that’s unhealthy for the bottom line.
I’ve dated a lot of different women. I don’t gravitate to any certain type. Round women, stick-thin women, Black women, Caucasian women, Hispanic, Asian, or Israeli women. Each of those other women, while different, had one thing in common. They worked in proper office settings and dressed in outfits more expensive than mine, which is saying something as I have very, very expensive taste.
I don’t go jogging with the women I date, mainly because the women I date either don’t jog or prefer to run on a treadmill. I don’t do treadmills. I run outside or not at all. Who wants to run on a moving belt? It’s impersonal. And the scenery fucking sucks.
Even on a weekend, the women I’ve dated usually donned a full face of makeup. And while I have seen a lot of bare feet, they usually poke out of a slimming pencil skirt or a short dress. Jeans, yes, but I can’t recall any of them wearing a pair as well as Cris does. She must feel me lingering at the doorway of her office. She looks up from her laptop.
“Hi.” Her smile is cautious, anticipatory, reminding me of last week when I buried my face between her legs and feasted on her like a starving man. Four times, I remind myself with a proud roll of my shoulders. I counted.
Although number four should’ve counted as two, given how powerful it was. She literally shoved me away, then curled on her side and shouted the completion of her release into a pillow. Meanwhile, I went for the world’s record on the most painful chubby of my life. Seriously. I could have carved my name in the wall with it.
I survived. I was doing it for her. I wanted to prove multiple orgasms were not an urban legend. She deserved her own “Bigfoot sighting,” if you know what I mean.
And I nailed it.
We lay there a while after and she touched my chest, casually running her fingers over my pecs and down my abs and up again. She chatted about nothing while my skin caught fire. It took everything in me not to strip off my pants and sink into her wet pussy, and then fuck her until we were both screaming for the Almighty.
I swipe my forehead and shake the incredibly distracting fantasy from my head. “Did you read my email?”
“Oh. Not yet.” She clicks a button and her eyes scan the laptop’s screen. I walk into her office and lower my ass onto the corner of her desk. Her gray eyes track over to my leg and then up to my face. “We’re going to Venice, Florida?”
“Evidently.”
“I didn’t realize they were hosting the fundraiser at their main office,” she murmurs. “I’ll have to clear our schedule. Book a flight, rooms…” She grabs a pen and jots down a few notes for the trip.
Typically, we (Owen Construction) attend the annual charity fundraiser for Heart-to-Teen here in Ohio. The charity helps home kids between the ages of ten to seventeen. They have branches throughout the country. The Ohio one is huge since the Owens support it biannually, and with a lot of money. My adoptive parents have always given generously, but they give more to Heart-to-Teen than anywhere else. Trust me, I see the reports.
This year is different since the charity is hosting a fundraiser specifically for their biggest donors. Archer, Nate, and me included.
“Room, singular,” I correct. She blinks up at me, half lost in thought as she absorbs what I’m saying. “I already took care of reserving it. We’re staying in a neighboring hotel rather than where they’re holding the event. I booked a room with a view of the ocean.”
“One room?”
“You’re staying with me. We can take care of your lingering virginity issue while we’re away. If that’s all right with you,” I tack on, since her expression has morphed into a bizarre mixture of anger and anticipation. She usually loves when I talk about sex. And she’s loved everything I’ve done to her so far. A very large part of me—not that one—wonders why we didn’t do this a long time ago.
She sets her top teeth to her bottom lip. “Benji—”
“Look,” I interrupt before she can ruin my plans, “I know you haven’t made a habit out of letting people do nice things for you, but you’re going to start.” She’s taken care of a household, raised three boys, and put herself partly through college. She dropped out when said household was too much to juggle alongside her schoolwork. She started working for Dad, and then later started working with me. Short of recently when I’ve made her moan in ecstasy, I’m not sure anyone has done anything for her without considering what they might get in return. It’s vexing.
“This is your opportunity to allow yourself to be treated the way a woman should be treated,” I explain. “So far you’ve taken care of everyone else. It’s time to let someone take care of you.”
“That’s not necessary.” She shakes her head, her smile soft. Like she’s suddenly uncomfortable with the idea of me doing things for her. And to her.
“Necessary has nothing to do with it.” I stand from her desk. “The hotel room and travel are sorted. Got it?”
She sighs, a sound of capitulation. “Got it.”
For years she has been a busy “mom” to her brothers and a busy worker bee for Dad and me. It’s her turn to be served. I’m going to gift her what she’s been missing. Explosive, carefree sex with someone she can trust.
Just as soon as she grants me access.