Chapter Twenty-Three
Benji
“Slower,” I hiss between my teeth as I try to endure another stroke.
I make it. Barely.
Cris is perched on top of me, gliding back and forth, her inner thighs clamping my legs, her hands on my chest, her plush bottom resting on my thighs. Her blunt fingernails dig in, the bite welcome. And Christ, is she tight. So fucking tight.
“Like this?” A devil’s smile clashes with her sweet voice, but hell if I mind. She rotates her hips, lifting up and slamming down to take every inch of my cock. Her perfect breasts jiggle with each smooth slide. I tease her nipples, lifting my hips to meet her each time she’s seated. I’m pleased to see she’s losing her concentration. Before I have to employ the thumb-to-clit move, she finds her release. She’s clenching around me and moaning my name, her hips moving in jerky starts and stops.
I help by holding her in place while her orgasm racks her. Another few intimate strokes and then I lose track of time, space—everything. My eyes slam closed and I clench my jaw. Lightning streaks up my spine. I spill into her tight channel, my fingers gripping her hips with enough force to leave bruises. I’m fairly certain I finished on a shout. I’m not a shouter, but fuck, that was good.
And so I say, “Fuck. That was good,” when she collapses in a boneless heap on top of me.
Her cushiony breasts press against my chest. She sighs and the soft exhalation tickles my collarbone. When she kisses my neck, her hair tickles my chin. Blindly, since I haven’t found the strength to open my eyes yet, I wrap my arms around her and silently beg her not to move. She doesn’t. My heart pounds, communicating to hers without my permission—tapping out its own Morse code—for what, I have no idea.
She hums, places another kiss on my neck, and pushes off me. I swear I’m trying to let her, but my hands clamp her middle. I lift my hips, still trapped in her warmth and not wanting to leave. She laughs, wiggles back and forth, and eventually wins the fight. I blame my orgasm for zapping my remaining strength.
She returns from the bathroom, her petite yet curvy body gliding across my bedroom. I decide I’ve never seen a more beautiful sight.
“From now on, will you work naked? I’ll close all the blinds,” I vow.
“No.” She lies next to me on her back, her head turned, her eyes on mine. “That breaks my rule.”
She’s broken a few of mine and I didn’t think I had any. Granted, “don’t fuck your best friend” should be a given, you know?
“You already broke that rule.” I tap the turgid tip of one of her nipples. “It’s nearing two o’clock on a Tuesday. That is very much a workday.”
“How was I supposed to react?” She clucks her tongue like she’s mad at herself for capitulating. She hates when I’m right. She lifts an arm and drops it, explaining with two words. “The roses.”
I grin. She went for a walk after lunch. While she was gone I filled her car with pink roses from Mom’s garden. I mean, it was packed. I idled the engine and turned on the A/C so they wouldn’t wilt, then waited outside for her to come back. The awestruck, flattered look of disbelief on her face when she stepped onto the driveway and encountered a car full of flowers was priceless. I immediately snapped another picture for my mental scrapbook.
Click.
Vivian put the idea in my head a few nights ago when she asked if I was considering putting together a bouquet. While having a cigar, I decided that since I vowed to teach Cris how to be treated well, I was going to make damn sure I treated her like gold.
“Did you like them?” I’m shamelessly fishing for compliments. I know she did. When she opened her car, she pulled an armload of the bouquets against her chest and looked over to where I was standing in the garage. Wetness shimmered in her eyes, and sweat glistened on her forehead as she regarded me over hundreds of pink petals.
Click.
Instead of worshiping me, she let out an exasperated breath and then asked, “Where am I supposed to find vases for this many roses?” I told her she could use the bathtub. She rolled her eyes but instructed me to grab an armload of roses and meet her inside. From there I was thanked with many kisses. I returned the gesture by plucking her clothing off piece by piece.
“Mom called Manuel the other day,” she says, sounding contemplative. I find it odd she didn’t tell me this morning. Her mother calling is big news—that woman never calls. Out of everything Cris shares with me on any given day, I would think a call from Lina would be the headline.
“She’s pregnant.”
The blaring horn of a freight train sounds inside my head, sending my heart into a full gallop. I blink rapidly at the spinning ceiling fan, my own head spinning. My hammering heart returns to normal as my brain sluggishly processes her words. Apparently, the mere mention of the word “pregnant” has the power to send me into a panic. However, the “pregnant” person in this scenario is not the gorgeous, naked blonde I am sleeping with, but instead her mother. Still alarming, but nowhere near deserving of my Code Red reaction.
“You’re kidding.” I clear my throat when my voice sounds strangled.
“I’m not kidding.” She sounds exhausted. I can imagine why. The news carries with it a hell of a lot of weight—way more than the sum total of pounds and ounces of a newborn baby boy or girl.
We are talking about the woman who was too irresponsible to raise her own kids, so she heaped that responsibility onto the oldest of them. If Cris was a different person and reported her mom, the state would have seen to it that Lina (or other available family members) performed her parental duties. But Cris didn’t want to upset her brothers. She refused to risk them being taken and relocated. I remember my family being ripped away, what it was like to start over. The brothers I’m insanely grateful to have in my life were strangers to me back then. It was terrifying. How’d she know exactly the right thing to do for Manuel, Dennis, and Timothy when she was so young herself? I don’t know, but she did. God, she’s incredible.
“Manuel was almost robotic when he told me the news,” she says. “I wish he had a better relationship with Mom. He had more time with her than Dennis and Timothy, which is alarming because it still wasn’t much.”
“Lift up,” I instruct, unwilling to have this conversation without holding her. She snuggles in, and I wrap an arm around her shoulders. “Listen—”