Benson leaned down and kissed her. Her breasts grazed his chest. He put a single hand under her bottom and his cock found her once again. And like that, holding her in place against him, feeling her clench and unclench and move as one, they made love.
“Fuck, fuck,” Benson moaned. It was a moan of surprise and how amazing she felt. He didn’t want to take for granted that he was inside her. The waves of pleasure rolled upward into his stomach as every inch of him moved in and out, wet and warm, and pulsating with him.
Like a hand along his penis, Annie’s body worked him and he remained focused on her eyes as they established a rhythm, a beat, a lock-step dance. It was like they were in a bubble—closed off from reality, from life—focused only on the pleasure each one was giving the other.
Benson wondered if she loved each moment as much as he did. In and out; he felt a tug in the center of his stomach, a jolt of energy to the tip of his cock. He was going to cum. And he wanted Annie to know that she’d brought this out of him, his pleasure, his burst of pure love—it was love and it was an explosion and it was all because of her. Those small breasts, slender hips, the mole, the hardest of her nipples.
He took it all in and visually assessed each thing he noticed about the woman he was with; as the orgasm worked its way down into his groin and his balls, pushing and pulsating toward the powerful moment of release, he watched Annie’s face, twisted tight, eyes wide open, pussy wet and quivering.
“Benny,” she moaned. “God, you can fuck.”
He pumped once, twice, and his face twisted up in an unstoppable o-face of pure bliss and eye-rolling and teeth exposed, a fire in his stomach growing and releasing straight up into her vagina. It was as if that was his only calling in life: penetrate and ejaculate into Annie Gerwitz, the goddess of sex.
“What did you call me?” Annie asked him, sweaty, hot, panting, pumping out the last of his orgasm with her clenched pussy.
Benson laughed. He leaned down and laughed again, his teeth and hers meeting, their lips on each other.
“I think,” he said, breathing heavily, still inside her, “I called you the Goddess of Sex.”
She moaned and rubbed her clit once with her hand, her face twisting. “Oh, oh, oh!” And she came and he could feel her against him, rolling in waves against his softening cock. It was almost enough to get him hard again.
And when she was done and he pulled out of her, handing her a towel, wrapping her in a blanket, cuddling next to her, their naked bodies snug together, sticky with sweat, she laughed. And laughed.
“The Goddess of Sex,” Annie repeated, shaking her head. She glanced up at the large clock over the mantel and sighed. “It’s still early. I think I need to earn my title.”
Chapter Fifteen
The Goddess of Sex. It was ludicrous but entertaining, the way he looked at her. She’d seen his logy eyes and smitten smile that first night, but now he’d been inside her and she’d snuggled beside him, exchanging flirtatious barbs, his eyes mostly on her breasts while he recovered from their couch-based missionary position. Only, she’d propped herself up on her elbows and watched them fuck which was really the most exciting thing.
A cock inside her for the first time in a long time—a man who knew what to do, how to hold her, how to excite her with a flick of his tongue and a raise of his eyebrow. When he spoke low and fast, she was putty in his hands.
Not exactly the formidable attorney she wished to present herself as; she clearly had problems.
Benson flexed muscles in his arms she didn’t know existed and she’d never had someone easily lift up her ass to meet him, single-handedly positioning her into him. He seemed to anticipate her needs and her moves, rocking into her just when she needed more pressure, moaning just when she craved reinforcement.
Over the past two years, she repeated to all her girlfriends who begged her to get laid that a vibrator was the same thing as sex only without the mess.
She’d been lying to herself.
There was something about looking up and seeing Benson’s brown eyes searching hers for validation while communicating how into her he was—hips moving, cock pumping. But it wasn’t just the sex; he kept asking her for permission to do things to her body that made everything inside her vibrate like she’d downed a whole cup of cold brew.
Now, they’d moved naked to the window.
Annie faced the ocean, the lights off in the house, the street lamps of Ocean Avenue orange and far-off, keeping his house in shadow. With her hands against the glass, she popped her hips and her ass and Benson fisted himself and gently entered her from behind. Arms outstretched, balancing, she could feel the length of him. His hands went from her back to her hips, to her ass. Then they shuddered together, her breath hot against the glass, the steam creating an outline of their bodies against the darkened glass.
Rubbing herself as he came inside her, she waited for him to tease himself against her until she let herself loose, shaking, her arms turning to jelly. He put his hands underneath her and helped her stand.
It wasn’t every day, although she wanted it to be, where an orgasm left her unable to walk, spent, exhausted.
Benson led her to the jet tub and without initiating penetration, he washed her entire body and kissed her shoulders and her toes and each nipple.
“Sleep over,” he said. “I want to wake up in the middle of the night and see you beside me.”
“I won’t,” she answered and stepped from the bath, the water running down her legs and collecting on the bath mat below. He handed her a towel and she dried every inch of herself, taking extra care with her pussy as he watched; she knew by the way he was staring at the way her hand moved across the mound of her pubic area that he was getting hard again.
“Really?” she questioned, gesturing with a nod to the obvious erection.
“It’s been like forty minutes and I honestly can’t help it. You think I can help it?” He ran his hand over his pants, smoothing down the bulge. “If it’s any consolation, I think it would take me at least an hour to come again…if you’re feeling like a challenge.” He winked.
“I have a lot to do for work.”
“Always work.”
“Always work,” she repeated with a smile. “Maybe tomorrow?”
“You want a booty call tomorrow?” Benson asked. He leaned back against the sink and crossed his arms and his ankles, staring shamelessly as she tied the towel around her waist and left her breasts exposed and cold, her areolas dark, aroused, even if she wasn’t going to do anything about it. This was about sex. She said it in her head like a mantra, to remind herself that this was not her life—this was a story she could tell someday, a man, a writer, sexy and smart, who could make her quake and tremble, raise her blood-pressure with a look.
No, that man—who replaced her date and wormed his way into her life—was not her husband. He was the bridge between what she thought she wanted and what she truly needed: stability, money, a desire for commitment.
“A booty call,” Annie repeated. She walked up to him, towel moving with her body, and she pushed her naked chest against his clothed chest and he unwrapped his arms and hugged them around Annie’s waist. “No. I don’t want a booty call.”
“But if I come home from work tomorrow night and you’re waiting on my porch…”
Annie pulled away.
“You think I just want sex?” she asked.
Benson raised his eyebrows. He took his hand and showed it to her and then took two fingers reached in up under the towel and found her clit; with his thumb he made her jolt and after ten seconds he found her open and wet again. He let her be.
“I think we’re both horny for each other,” Benson answered, standing up, wrapping his hands around her again. “Nothing wrong with that.”
“I can’t tomorrow.”
“What about the weekend?” he asked.
Annie thought about her schedule—her weekend. She’d already debriefed her date with Josh with Rylan and had a se
ssion and a date planned for the weekend. Date attempt number three would be on Saturday with a man named Beau who was European and already had a daughter who lived with her mother in some neglected town.
She thought about lying, but she couldn’t. He knew what he was getting himself into and she’d been nothing but honest.
“I have a date,” she said and she flicked her neck and scratched an imaginary itch.
“Oh?” Benson asked and he was trying to play it cool, casual and comfortable, but she saw right through the one-note question and the way he looked away. It was inevitable that he’d want more of her than she could give, but she hadn’t expected him to be the jealous type after such a short amount of time.
She wasn’t sleeping with any of the Twoly dates. Hell, she’d been unable to successfully finish a Twoly date, so why did he think this particular one was going to be any different.
“Yup. Some French guy,” she smiled and tilted her head, wanting to tease him. “I’ve heard the French are better at so many things than Americans…”
“Oh?” he asked again, employing the same one-note, her comments clearly getting under his skin.
“He’s part French royalty,” she lied extravagantly hoping he’d call her out on it, but he didn’t. He raised his eyebrows and frowned.
“Wow,” he said and scratched his head, moving away from the sink and out of the bathroom, leaving her feeling more exposed than she had all evening. Annie adjusted the towel and moved it up under her armpits. She followed him into the living room, her feet slapping on the hardwood floors.
“Yeah, owns a castle, too, and is filthy rich…has a yacht in Greece. Owns a Monet. A world traveler and he was really interested, specifically, in a public defender with no assets for some reason. He saw my picture and he thinks I’m hot.”
He caught on, his annoyance giving way to embarrassment.
“You’re joking.”
“You’re jealous.”
“Yeah,” Benson admitted breezily as if it was as natural as anything. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because you know I’m untouchable.”
“And yet…” he said, with a nod, “you keep letting me touch you.”
“Stop,” Annie said and raised her hand, frustrated by the playfulness in his voice, the unwillingness to let her go. He was the toy—and the sooner he saw that, the better. And yet. She liked him. His cockiness and his humor, the way he assumed everything would right itself and work in his favor because it always had.
“I can’t meet up tomorrow anyway,” Benson offered. He was finding her clothes and placing them on the back of the couch, announcing without fanfare that the night was over. She wasn’t shocked or disappointed, only confused as the ease in which he slipped into practical mode/professional mode. “I’m due back in Portland for a status meeting with my editors.”
“A status meeting,” Annie repeated. “On the Schubert story?”
Benson inhaled and held his breath, and Annie thought she suspected a hint of fear in her lover’s eyes. She knew the signs from even the bravest of criminals—he was hiding something from her.
“Yeah,” Benson nodded and rubbed his chin. “I haven’t done much. I don’t have much.”
“Our podcast,” she offered. The clumsy one with the coaster as a stop sign. “Can you use that?”
“We’ll see,” he said. “What do we really have with this case? What can I take to them that matters?”
“We have Linda’s connection…”
“Superficial,” he said.
“You’re only guessing—” Annie tried to comfort him before he interrupted.
“We have a missing child and no leads.”
That reminded Annie that she still needed to follow-up with her brother. She nodded absentmindedly and followed Benson’s hints by getting dressed piece by piece, eventually losing the towel and grabbing her purse. Only the ends of her hair were damp, and she felt a bit exposed.
“Right. Well. For what it’s worth, I think we’re close to something. You and me. I know it.”
“I hope so.”
“I have court in the morning or I’d—” she trailed off. Annie didn’t know what to say. If it were the weekend, would she stay? Would she crawl into bed with the hot writer and let him spoon her until the sun came up over the forest and brightened the eastern sky. She was already playing with fire and hoping the singing flames stayed away from anything flammable.
“Stay, yeah,” Benson finished for her. “You’d stay, of course.”
He said it in a way that made her feel like maybe he didn’t expect her to stay. He was distracted by the date.
“So, you won’t be in town tomorrow. When will I see you next?”
The man began to walk toward the door and Annie had no choice but to follow.
“I’m not sure,” Benson answered. The doorknob was in his hand and his eyes were on the floor, lost in thought, lost in something deeper and darker than she could imagine. “I’m out for maybe two days. Then I’ll be back. I had a friend do some research and so I’ll dig deeper into that, see what I find.”
“Two days in Portland,” Annie repeated.
“Yeah,” Benson smiled. He leaned forward and kissed her. His lips lingered. She was the first to pull back. It was simple, deep. There was longing in the kiss, not electricity; simplicity and desire with passion taking a backseat. She shivered at the intimacy of it. “Two days. Can you handle it?” he asked in a joking way, smoothing down the flyaway hairs near her face, his eyes searching hers for a reason to ask her to stay.
She could see it now—the hurt. The way he kept waiting for her to say: You’re right, forget it. I was wrong. That date? I’ll cancel. But she couldn’t say that to him and he knew it. He reluctantly kissed her on the cheek next and Annie slipped outside into the dark.
“Thanks,” she said as if thanking him for the sex.
“For?” he asked.
“I like being with you.”
“I’m not the one who’s running away.”
The statement hit her hard in the heart and she looked down, unwilling to let him see the dilemma play out on her face and in her tears. “I should go home. Busy day. I’ll text you the sunsets, okay?” And when she asked him, she couldn’t hide the emotion.
“You can’t cry,” Benson said and he leaned forward and wiped away the tear that rolled down her cheek, “when you’re the one that’s choosing to walk away. That’s not fair. You can’t cry.”
“You don’t understand,” Annie whispered.
Benson kissed her once more. He pulled back and she said nothing, her body felt cold in the wind and the damp.
“Night, Annabelle,” Benson said before she could argue or change her mind. He shut the door and walked away—she could hear his footsteps retreating slowly into the back of the house until the sounds disappeared and the place went quiet.
“Night,” Annie whispered to the door. And then to herself, tilting her head back, staring at the underside of the front porch eaves, she mumbled, “Fuck.” She was reaching the point of no return and nothing was as simple as she hoped it would be.
Without hesitation, Annie asked her car to dial Brother Number Four: the second youngest.
Alex.
He was closest to her in age and life experience and they both shared a certain reservation about telling their older brothers anything important. If she had to choose one brother to keep a secret for her, it would be Alex—stalwart and quiet, disinterested in making life about himself.
He was still mostly an asshole. It was a Gerwitz trait and it couldn’t be helped.
Alex answered on the second ring.
Her brother was a wills and probate lawyer—he’d gone for something easy and boring and he often shied away from legal conversations with the family as if picking a side in a debate was akin to torture.
“Annie?” he asked. “What’s up?”
Annie sighed and dove right in. “Robin Schubert. Her husband was Bill Schubert.
Victim of the Cannon Beach murder. Tell me what happened the night he died. I know you went to help Dad and I want answers.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line and she heard her brother sigh. “Where are you?” he asked.
“Cannon Beach,” she said. “Heading home.” Why lie? “From a date. Driving. Reeling. I can tell by your reaction that you didn’t expect me to bring this up.”
Another long pause.
“Alex,” Annie pushed. “Dad threatened to cut me off. I’m not willing to let go. If you know something then you owe me enough to save me from being blindsided.”
He didn’t answer right away and he sniffed. She heard him handle the phone and say something to someone, muffled from her hearing, and when he came back to her, his voice was curt and tense, “You heading home right now? Like, in your house, doors locked?”
“Be there in a couple minutes. Yeah, why?”
“Go home. Be safe. I’ll meet you there in an hour and a half.”
“Be safe? Come on. And you’re driving in from Portland for this?” Annie said, her heartbeat increasing and her limbs growing cold with worry. “Look, if I’m in danger,” she started, feeling suddenly exposed as she drove down the lightless 101.
At any second she expected either a deer or a human or a ghost to cross her path and send her careening into the guardrail. Alex’s silence tugged at her and she pushed her foot against her pedal and rushed a bit faster toward the safety of her house.
“Annie, I don’t know what to tell you. Dad told you not to dig on this,” her brother replied, and Annie’s foot lifted, her car settled back, and she stared ahead—reeling, confused. He knew. “Don’t dig.”
“What?” Annie asked.
“Come on, Annie,” Alex said. “Don’t play dumb.”
“I’m not playing dumb,” she replied, matching his tone. “I’m playing the why the fuck is that your business? And how did you know that?”
“One hour and thirty-eight minutes,” she heard him say as his car beeped to life in the background and his engine roared. Annie could picture her brother, two years older, cradling the phone between his neck and his shoulder, maneuvering with both hands out of his parking space, irritated and exhilarated. It had been a long time since he’d graced the coast with his presence.
Savage Distractions (The Love is Murder Social Club Book 3) Page 18