Chapter Twenty-One
Cris
I’m sitting across from Benji at the Thai restaurant, Muse Elephant. It’s trendy and delicious, and I’m damned relaxed considering the circumstances. I’ve been sleeping with my best friend/boss for over a week now, and things are going really well.
Like really, really well.
He was right about my being sore after that first night. The day we returned to Ohio, muscles I didn’t know I had were aching between my legs. Not that he was rough in any way. I was the one on top when I talked him into having sex before we checked out of the hotel. On a high from the night before, I didn’t hold back. Being in charge of his pleasure was both exciting and enthralling.
I couldn’t imagine doing any of it with anybody else. Or maybe I don’t want to. There’s a comfort level with him I don’t have with other people. I’ve seen him day in and day out consistently for the last year and a half or more. I can tell him if he has basil stuck in his teeth without either of us being embarrassed. Sex with him is so…easy. I have a feeling if I were with someone else I’d worry myself silly over my partner’s every microexpression.
We are doing remarkably well. I don’t have much experience, but I’ve offered a sympathetic ear to my girlfriends. I’ve heard about their dating lives, and let me tell you, it’s a lot of agonizing over “should I do this” or “is he doing that.”
I haven’t grilled Benji about his dating history since my rogue bout of curiosity at the hotel, but the women he’s dated have crossed my mind. I’ve known him for ten years, albeit most of those years from afar, but he didn’t date any of them long enough to know them as well as he and I know each other.
I sip my wine as he continues talking about work, silently wondering if his arms ever grow tired from holding up his guard.
His smile is hiding something. I assumed it masked stress at work. But what if it’s covering something thornier? Does he have a problem with intimacy?
There is a compatibility factor already in place thanks to our friendship. He certainly didn’t have friendship with Trish. I’m aware there was physical attraction between him and the women he dated, but it’s clear we have that component as well. Benji and I are off-the-charts physically attracted to each other. Not only have we crossed a couple of firsts off my list, but I’m teaching him a few things as well.
Like: Women don’t always like butt grabs as they’re walking away. And we like to be told we’re smart as well as hot. Oh, and having a ceiling fan on while he’s going down on me makes me cold. In turn he’s taught me if I bury him under the covers while he’s pleasing me he’s in danger of suffocating.
We’re both learning.
“Leave it to Josie,” he says, wrapping up his story. I was listening, partially. In my defense, I already knew what happened. I know everything going on in the office. I overheard his conversation with Josie this afternoon. “I figure you can iron it out on Monday. She likes you.”
“Absolutely.” I reach for my cell phone and open my calendar.
“No phones at dinner,” he says.
“Now you’re turning into your mom?”
“It’s Dad’s rule, but he made it for her.”
“Will is a good husband.”
Benji nods, his smile as warm as a mug of tea. “He is.”
“How else am I supposed to remember I need to do something for you on Monday if I don’t put it on my calendar?”
“One of the perils of mixing business and pleasure.”
I press my lips together to keep from smiling at him unabashedly. The mix of business and pleasure between us is less fifty-fifty and more like thirty-seventy. I’m having trouble compartmentalizing like I promised myself I would. The lines between best friend and boss were easier to navigate than the lines between best friend and lover.
“I didn’t invite you to dinner to talk about work. And here I am talking about work.” He picks up his wineglass and promises, “No more work talk.”
“Don’t be silly. What else do couples talk about when they’re on a date?” I lift my own wineglass as an awkward silence falls between us. Clarity dawns as I replay what I said. We’re a couple in the most technical sense of the word. But we’re not a couple by the standard definition. There will be no shared holidays. No snuggling on the sofa after a long day. No moment where he gives me his house key or we talk about how to navigate the treacherous waters of dealing with the in-laws.
I am saved from further dissecting who we are to each other by our server, who glides over to ask if we’d like dessert. She rattles off a long list of options. By the time she mentions “warm vanilla-glazed donuts” I exchange glances with Benji across the table. His eyes sparkle, a knowing smirk parked on his lips. I assume his mind returned to the memory of the donuts we shared the night I surrendered my virginity. If, like me, he’s thinking how any donut, no matter how gourmet, would fail to stand up to the divine perfection of the donuts we shared that evening.
“Just the takeout boxes,” I tell our server without breaking eye contact with my date. “We’ll have dessert at home.”
“Excellent choice,” Benji praises after our server leaves.
“The takeout boxes?” I widen my eyes and try to look innocent.
“Pray tell,” he says, holding my hand over the table. “What kind of dessert do we have at home? And are you now calling my house ‘home’?”