“I… I guess I am. I’ve been at your house more often than mine.” Lately especially. For good reason. My house is cavernous and lonely. There are no noisy brothers to keep me company any longer, and no luxurious bedding with Benji on top of it.
“Yeah, I guess you have.” His eyes narrow in consideration. “I didn’t notice. I’m so used to you being there. Huh.”
“I can cut back if you like,” I sort of joke as my hand grows damp in his.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he reprimands gently as he pulls his hand from mine.
“I’m just surprised I didn’t notice.”
“Too busy having your mind blown?” I lob the brag at him, hoping he takes my cue. We can banter our way out of being uncomfortable if he’s willing. He doesn’t disappoint.
“I have created a monster.”
“It’s not nice to call a lady a monster.”
“I can’t say what I’m thinking here, Cris,” he murmurs.
“Those damn decency laws,” I whisper, noting the exact moment when the awkwardness dissipates between us. He leans in, taking my hand again. I’m warm all over, eagerly anticipating some signature Benji dirty talk.
Unfortunately, at that moment the server returns with our takeout boxes. Even more unfortunately, we are forced to sit back in our seats and wait while our server makes small talk and packs up our food for us.
When we finally make it out of there with our bagged goodies, we dash hand in hand to Benji’s car parked on the edge of the street.
“I didn’t think she was going to allow us to leave. It was the Heart-to-Teen fundraiser all over again.” He’s so sincere I have to laugh.
“She was schmoozing you. I think she recognized you and knew how deep your pockets went.”
“I think you slipped her some cash to delay us so I’d want you more.”
The compliment, along with the romantic evening, has hit its mark. I feel special and cherished and sexy and wanted. The glass of wine at dinner went a long way to helping me let go of the workday. He steps closer and tips my chin with one knuckle. I’m drowning in caramel-colored eyes with no desire to be saved.
“How am I supposed to concentrate on the road during our thirty-five-minute drive when I have a hard-on with your name on it?”
“I require a fact-check,” I whisper.
“Monster,” he teases before placing a kiss on the center of my lips. “I’m not obeying any speed limits on the way home.”
Longing wraps itself around the word home and settles deep in my belly, its weight comforting. Which doesn’t make a lot of sense. To me, home has only ever been a place to manage. A place to organize, pay for, and maintain. Benji’s home is different. His home is welcoming and comfortable. A lot like him.
A warning burbles to the surface of my mind, cautioning not to allow his version of home and mine to become synonymous. He might appear to fit seamlessly into every single part of my life as I do into every part of his, but it’s a mirage.
My mother has been married seven times. I’m getting married one time. One. I decreed it when I was fifteen years old and feeling particularly despondent about the permanence of anything. She’d already had a number of men in her life, and I refused to let myself get to know any of them. They never stuck around. I noticed she was always the one who asked them to go.
Even if I never ask him to leave, I know Benji isn’t interested in marriage and family. As comfortable as we are with each other, and as many naked moments as we’ve shared together, I can tell he’s holding back. Protecting himself, similar to the way I protected myself years ago. He’s been hurt before and doesn’t want to risk being hurt again.
The worst part is he’s right to hold back. He must suspect I want more. He doesn’t want to ask me to settle for less than the future I envisioned for myself. And, more importantly, if we try to appease the other and each become people we’re not, we could risk everything.
A friendship ten years in the making, meant to last a lifetime, is a high price to pay no matter how good we are in bed together.
The thought of us becoming bitter and not speaking, the way my mom refuses to speak to any of her exes, hollows out my chest. I recognize the irony, but it doesn’t make it any less true: I love him too much to lose him.
“Who says we have to wait until we get home?” I reach up to play with his hair. The streetlight overhead bathes him in warm light. He’s so freaking gorgeous it’s criminal. And for tonight he’s mine. Which is probably why I boldly add, “Find somewhere dark where we can park. Your backseat looks roomy.”
He studies the sky as a laugh bobs his throat. Then he takes my hand and kisses my palm. “Lesson number…whatever we’re on: Never ever let a guy take you to dinner and then do you in the car. No matter how much of a hurry he’s in.”
I grip his tie and tug his lips to mine, delighted to have the freedom to touch him the way I’ve wanted to for years. Delighted further when he bends to my will. It’s heady, this power. “What if I’m in as much of a hurry?”
His eyes darken to deep brown. His arm lashes around my waist, and I’m pressed against his firm body from breasts to hips. Part of him is quite a bit firmer than the rest.