“I’ve hit some professional roadblocks,” Benson answered. They needed a night away from the Cannon Beach Murders and their personal consequences of heeding the call to solve the mystery. That would still be there tomorrow.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Annie sniffed. “I’ve hit some personal ones.”
“Let’s talk about it over pasta,” he said without making a move to the kitchen, only remaining still in the hall, her face glowing.
“And beer,” she added lifting the drink up to him in a thank you cheers. She stood up, straight-armed and she looked to her right, where the kitchen light remained on and welcoming. “I’ll help you cook.”
“That would be perfect,” he said. Before he made his way to the kitchen, he pointed down the hall. “After dinner,” he started and cleared his throat, “there’s a jet tub in the master and an uncanny supply of bath bombs…if you need a post-pasta float. We all have shit days. I want to take care of you.”
Annie took in the information and nodded slowly. She set down the beer and walked over to him. When she reached him, the fire’s orange flickering now at her back, she whispered, her hands trembling, “Thank you…” she trailed off.
Benson took a step. His right hand found her arm. She stepped into him and he brushed his nose against the side of her head, taking in the aroma of her; she smelled like the ocean. They stood a long time like that: his cheek pressed against her head, his hand on her gently, her arms at her side.
“The last time I kissed you,” Benson whispered, his voice against her hair, “you cried.”
“I know,” Annie said. She moved forward an inch and collapsed into his chest.
“You friend-zoned me. Fast.”
“I know.”
“Then,” he said and he slid his hand down her arm and took her hand. He kissed her temple and felt her body soften beneath him. “Right now we cook.” And without letting Annie refuse, he dragged her to the kitchen and set her up at the counter with a knife, a cutting board, and sundried tomatoes as he dumped in angel hair pasta to the water and rummaged around for other ingredients. Spinach. With each new thing he set on the counter, Annie stopped cutting and watched him.
“What?” Benson asked.
“I thought you were just another arrogant writer,” she mumbled.
Benson juggled dried garlic, pepper, and a lemon and then set the flavors down by the skillet he’d grabbed. “I am,” he replied. He was. “I’m everything about writers you hate.” He sliced the lemon, drizzled some olive oil in the pan. “I’m going to take everything you say and think about how I can write about it, spin it into something that’s the same, but different. Whatever happens in my life, whatever people say and do becomes a story I have to tell myself. But then,” he squeezed the lemon, seasoned his oil, strained the pasta, “I’ll notice things that other people won’t.” He tossed the pasta in the oil. “How you stick your lower lip out when you’re thinking….or how you’ll tuck your hair behind your ear if you need to waste a second before answering someone. I can write a poem about…” he paused, swallowed, “the beauty of a moment, too. Like the night you showed me how the sand glowed. But we’re all assholes, sure, writers live in their head. And our heads aren’t the best places to be.”
“Huh,” Annie said. She handed him her sundried tomatoes and their hands touched at the transfer. His heart surged forward, but he forced himself to turn and add her contribution to the dish. In went everything else, some chicken stock, some zest. It smelled amazing, but it eclipsed the sea salt aroma of her hair.
He turned. And caught her arm and pulled her in and smelled her hair again; the wind-whipped crispness, the smell of winter pine.
“How long did you wait for me?” he asked.
“Three hours,” Annie whispered.
“You smell like the beach,” he whispered back. “You must have been cold.” He stepped back and reached over her to grab two bowls.
“I always smell that way,” she replied. “And yeah…but…I was fine.”
“Go sit by the fire,” Benson instructed. “I’ll dish this up. You’re not drinking.”
“I’m fine,” Annie replied, but she listened anyway and walked over to the fireplace, the 70s group still serenading her with high notes.
Benson scooped his pasta dish into two bowls, turned off the stove, grabbed utensils and napkins and met her by the fire.
He paused. And froze, the bowls steaming in his hand, his eyes focused forward.
She’d undressed.
Annie had slipped out of her shirt and her skirt and her tights. She sat on the rug next to the fire settled back on her legs, her body white and light, her black underwear stunning. Her body aglow.
“When we do this,” Annie said, voice wobbling, hands steady. “I’m not a story you can tell.”
“Do what…” Benson asked. But he knew what she meant.
“Not ever.”
“Not ever,” Benson repeated, hands still holding bowls, he walked a few steps in her direction.
She shook her head and then took her hand and slipped the bra off one arm and then the other. Now she was topless. A breath caught in Benson’s chest.
“Not ever,” Annie whispered.
“What if…” he cleared his throat, “I don’t want this to be just for tonight.”
Benson saw Annie’s eyes scrunch and widen—he’d upset her and he didn’t know how it was possible.
“What if…” she said, swallowing, hooking a finger around her matching black underwear, “…I can’t promise you more than tonight.”
The answer sat between them, big and unyielding.
Annie continued when he couldn’t bring himself to respond.
“I signed a contract. And…look, I need this…”
Benson set the bowls down on the table and he took a step away from her.
“I like you,” he said. “I really like you. You want tonight and then what, Annie?”
“I can’t cancel the service,” she said with her eyes closed, unable to address him face-to-face, the fear of his rejection radiating off of her.
“I like you,” he said again. “No bullshit.”
“I know,” Annie answered with a weak smile. Then he saw—she unfurrowed her brow. She stared at him with acknowledgment, as if she was trying for one moment to see herself as he saw her. “There’s so much you don’t know…”
“I know enough. Give me credit.” He motioned to the door. “I saw your car already. I’m not sure what could be worse than that.”
“Oh, there’s worse,” Annie said. She turned her head and hid a smile. “Come here,” she whispered.
“No,” Benson whispered back. The pasta was getting cold. “Not until I hear from you that you’ll give me a chance. I don’t care if you date me in secret,” he heard himself say, unsure where it came from or if he believed the words as he said them, “I don’t care if you ignore me in public and pretend I’m some asshole stranger to save this ideal you’ve created with Twoly…”
Annie’s chest, still exposed, rose and fell as she listened to every word.
She was beautiful.
And he noticed for the first time how confident she seemed, sitting there, not hiding her body or offering apologies for imperfections. And in that moment of brazen confidence and unashamed hubris, he knew she was more beautiful than he could have imagined.
Her breasts small, a mole between them, gave way to her stomach—a paunch that he respected, two rolls of her belly meeting her tanned stomach. How could she be tan in the winter in Oregon? He wanted to reach out and touch every inch of her with his mouth, he was ready, but he resisted.
“…but I want to show you who I am. I want you to know me.”
You’re beautiful. And fucking sexy—with the way you hold your shoulders, your chin lifted in defiance, like a dare.
Annie opened her eyes and took a beat before answering.
“I want to know you, too,” she answered, as assuredly as anything. “I do w
ant that.”
“Then?”
“Okay,” she agreed. “Okay. You and me. Against the world…to solve Schubert and Price and…to…do what we want…not what others want for us.”
Benson understood immediately that was the issue at the center of their chemistry. Twoly was what her family wanted and that pull, their pull, was still stronger than his desire or their chemistry. For now. He could keep trying to woo her with impromptu food and long looks of desire, but that trick could run dry. He was going to run out of an established repertoire of meals.
“Now. Come here,” Annie instructed.
His cock twitched as the simple instruction in her voice.
He lowered himself to his knees and sat in front of her, him clothed, her half-naked. She touched his shoulders, ran a finger down each arm, and he felt his skin jolt with electricity and warmth. She was vulnerable and she knew it; she was open and she was calm. He scanned her face—not a worry line in sight. Her face was realized and she was in control of her hands as she moved them down to his belt.
Benson swelled and shivered.
“Do you understand?” she asked in a whisper as her hands wrapped around his arms and pulled him toward her, lips parted in expectation.
“Do I understand what?”
“What I meant…”
Benson made a small tsking noise and scooted his body forward a few more inches, drawing himself up along her side. He ran his hand across her hip and down and up the curve of her waist and up her side and back.
He closed his eyes and focused on the enormity of that moment; she relinquished total control.
He had meant it when he said he wanted to take care of her.
Maybe he was an arrogant writer, but he wasn’t without qualities Annie might desire. Benson made a move to leave, to get a condom, but she stopped him.
They discussed—in an obligatory conversation being free of sexually transmitted diseases and how she was on the pill to regulate her periods, so he could come inside her. The idea of it, feeling her, as he was meant to, moved him to act more swiftly.
He laid her down flat against the rug and she went willingly to her back as he kissed her, leaning over the top of her. She wrapped her legs around his fully clothed body and tugged him downward, their lips finding each other in short and long bursts. Each kiss grew in desire. He couldn’t believe how ready she made herself.
Benson breathed deeply through his nose as he tasted her—nothing but sea salt, he noted. He kissed her cheeks, and her collarbone, he took her small breast in his mouth and kissed her nipple; he made a mental note of each time she made a small moan of pleasure.
Oh, so you like it when I touch your ass and kiss you here and here and here…noted, noted, noted.
Between kisses, Annie began to arch her back, his dick fully hard, and then she began to talk to him. A low moan of acceptance and urging.
“Oh wow…Benny. Tell me to go home….after…when we’re done….because….otherwise, I’ll stay and stay…and, fuck, oh man, I have to be at court tomorrow at…”
He pulled off her underwear. She squealed with a fun laugh and opened her legs. Benson couldn’t help but look down at the downy softness of her sex. She was open and wet. Benson glanced up and caught a flash of blue as she watched him touch the downy, small mound of hair above her cleft. Annie propped herself up on her elbows and looked at him, her chest moving in waves of breath.
“…I have to be at court tomorrow at seven,” she finished. “This case is dumb, but yesterday’s wouldn’t get out of my head. Ended well, but….”
He took his left hand and ran his finger up until her hood, rubbing the little nub with a delicate circle.
“Jesus Christ, oh oh oh,” Annie called in a hoarse whisper. His index finger increased its coverage area and she melted beneath him. He watched the perma-frown thaw and release her from whatever was happening tomorrow at seven and whatever happened yesterday. At that moment, he knew she was fully present. Court was pushed away; Twoly was an afterthought; her parent’s marriage desires and elitist expectations meant nothing as he positioned himself between her legs and began to substitute the fingers with his tongue.
Annie gasped.
She let out a small hiccup of pleasure that fueled his desire even more. He wanted to make her gasp again.
It made him giddy to hear her like he’d won some great master prize. Benson licked around her clit again and drew the skin away in his mouth for a moment, kissing, loving on, tenderly stroking, and she slapped a hand against the floor.
“God,” she said. One word. One exclamation.
She wasn’t talking about court anymore.
Benson loved the taste of her. She was earth and spice and when his fingers explored her wetness, he groaned as her foot found his erection through his pants and began to rise up and down his shaft. He wiggled away from her.
“We’ll deal with me later,” Benson said and he stayed between her thighs, taking little moments to bite the fleshy inner part of each leg before going back to his steady flicking licks along her clit, his fingers moving inside her, adjusting to her own rhythm as she bucked beneath him, finding a rhythm.
In the firelight, Benson felt such warmth radiating off of both their bodies. She began to perspire, droplets of sweat along her brow.
She gasped again and swore, raising her hips once and twice, and then he realized he was feeling her come. The joy of recognizing the orgasm sent a jolt of pleasure through him—she was pure joy and rapture now; she was putty. A ripple of pleasure, a pulsated against him, a solid grip. Then her muscles unclenched and she cried out a little as he pulled his fingers free and kissed her leg down to her toes, moving upward, to look at her face—really look at it—basked in sheer bliss.
Sweat dripped down her forehead now and she had her hands on her stomach, her breath moving fast and quick.
“That was like the Kraken of orgasms,” she panted, opening her eyes. They locked expressions and Benson couldn’t help but break out into a wide grin. He scooted himself up the rug and put his body next to hers.
He kissed her.
“I did it,” he said with great triumph.
And he kissed her again and again, his kissed moving from her lips to her neck and then to her breasts. She giggled and wiggled under his caress and lips. He was so hard that it was impossible to think straight—everything in his mind needed to release.
“Did what?” Annie asked, sitting up on her elbows, taking her hand to lift his chin up from his kisses as he made his way back down to the welcoming, inviting mound of her body.
“I made all your frown lines disappear,” he whispered. “I looked at you and I saw…post-orgasm Annie…all sweat and heat. Not a worry to be found.”
“Yeah,” Annie said and she sat up all the way. She took her hands and placed them square on his chest and rocked him back on his heels. “You did that,” she whispered. “And I did this.” In one fluid motion, she found his pants button and zipper and released his cock from where it had been contained. She ran her hand along the length of it and Benson felt as her fingers caressed each inch of him, her eyes growing wider as she worked her way to find the tip. A bit of pre-cum ballooned and she rubbed it away, using the liquid to slide her hand up and down.
The idea of her hands on her him as enough to make him explode right then, but he took a slow breath and forced himself not to lose himself too much in the moment.
“Uh-huh,” he confirmed. “All you.”
She gave him a playful shove and he fell back, unzipping his pants, rolling them down his body, and pulling off his boxer-briefs. The to his great glee and excitement, she began to work his cock with her mouth.
“Sweet…god,” Benson said and he put a hand on the back of her head and ran his fingers through the softness of her hair. Annie licked the head of his penis with small tender flicks and kisses before enveloping the whole of him in her mouth and hands. Up and down his shaft she worked on her knees. Her other hand found his b
alls and she began to massage them gently.
Annie was sucking his cock now. He watched her. God, he loved watching her—it was surreal. It was too much to process as Annie’s mouth took the whole of him and then, not gagging or apologizing, only working fully on his own orgasm, brilliantly worked his penis.
The pleasure built slowly and then his eyes widened, taken by surprise by how fast he could feel himself coming.
“Oh shit,” he said and tried to pull back, but Annie didn’t flinch.
She took the whole of him in her mouth. She swallowed. And then she crawled upward, a look of pure triumph on her face. With his shirt still on, his face flush and red, his hair matted against his head, he looked like he’d been fully fucked. And when she kissed him, he could taste himself on her, the two of them mingled together in such a basic, human union.
Annie crawled and nestled herself against his body—their lower halves naked, touching, glowing.
Great sex was the same as the Big Bang—each orgasm a testament to the greatness of the Universe. That’s what Benson could equate it to. A powerful building force of creation and explosion. And with that in mind, he couldn’t help but see Annie as some cosmic piece of his history, but he thought that could’ve been the sheer afterglow talking.
Annie kissed him, returning each and every kiss that he’d bestowed on her. She took off his shirt until they both sat naked, spent, and wet beside the fire.
And they stared at each other, the enormity of the moment, the power of their collision washed over them, sealing them in the moment. Annie sucked his cock with such beauty and slow grace that he didn’t know what he was going to do with himself.
They’d verbally planned to avoid each other, not date, not give this a try. They were an impossible couple, but there they sat, perhaps more moved by shock than orgasm.
“Wow,” Benson said into her hair. “Wow.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I mean,” he continued, wondering the best way to compliment a woman on her blow job skills. You’re a goddess at sucking my cock, seemed a bit too casual for the joy he carried at the mental image of his penis sliding in and out of her mouth, her tongue on him, her eyes on his as she worked the shaft, the connection growing.
Savage Distractions (The Love is Murder Social Club Book 3) Page 14