She’d known Ben before and liked him. She knew he studied tai chi and was a centered kind of guy. She trusted him. Plus.
She felt just a little bit stalked. He’d maneuvered his way home with her that first day, had swung her bike up onto the porch like he knew exactly where she kept it. He’d finessed his way into her home, into lunches and a beer on the deck. Minus.
She’d been burned, and badly. She was probably overly suspicious, excessively vigilant. He was a casual, likable kind of guy, friendly, and single. It was no doubt common for him to show up somewhere and be handed a meal.
She’d let her guard down around him because she was sure he was hooked up with another woman—Shelly.
She got stuck on that one. It would be over-the-top paranoia to conclude that he’d deliberately led her to think he wasn’t available. She was sure she’d noticed him kissing Shell even before he’d seen Delilah. She remembered leaving her bike and walking up to the group, introducing herself to the captains Hank and Jo, before Ben had even turned around from his moment with Shell to meet her. He didn’t know she was coming. He couldn’t have known he’d leave his lip-lock with Shelly to face an old…flame, whatever.
But she hadn’t imagined it, either. The kiss he’d given Shell before he left to bike home with Delilah hadn’t been casual or friendly. It had been hot, deep, saliva-exchanging.
He’d wanted someone to think he was attached. Jo, maybe? Surely she knew Shelly was a lesbian, so seeing Ben kissing her wouldn’t put Jo off his trail, if she was on it.
Or maybe it was Shelly who’d wanted some cover. But she made no secret of her sexual orientation within the team. Who could she have been trying to fool?
Delilah remembered there were some spectators that day, quietly cheering the team from the lawn chairs they’d brought. Maybe someone among that group?
Whatever it was, the situation had given Ben an opening with Delilah he probably wouldn’t have had otherwise. Hands busy, she mulled it over.
A big part of prepping bamboo was fine work, like making the thin strips, or withes, that she would eventually weave into baskets. But the job started with splitting the culms. That was a strenuous task, requiring that she work her big splitting knife into the cylindrical span of bamboo, then whack it down on the floor until the culm separated along its whole length.
There were times when it was very satisfying work, and this was one. With each whack, she thought of Ben’s initial demeanor—friendly, innocent, nonthreatening. Nonsexual.
And then of the change that had occurred between them last night.
After a time of it her arms ached and she was dripping sweat. She took a break and poured a tall glass of filtered water, then perused the pile of ravaged bamboo she’d built. She still had a lot of work to do before she began weaving—forming the withes then boiling them in a bleach solution, drying them, dyeing them if she wanted.
She liked all the steps. She’d learned them in Japan, where bamboo weaving was a fine art studied for decades, like the formal floral arrangements called ikebana. She knew she could go to a craft store and buy the withes, but that wasn’t what she wanted. She liked the process that formed the art. One day, she wanted to have the space to grow her own bamboo.
She leaned against the deck rail, seeing all the steps that would end in a pleasing basket— a work of craftsmanship, at least, she could claim, if not art. As she stood there, she remembered Ben leaning against that same rail.
Okay, he’d gotten past her defenses, whatever was the reason behind that implied “I’m taken” façade.
So she’d have to deal. Unless she wanted to be over-the-top paranoid.
And, no, she didn’t want that. She wanted a life, one lived without paranoia or bitterness that kept her from forming the relationships that were so much a part of being human.
Falling so hard, so fast, for Linc had been a mistake. But mistakes were part of living. They were how people learned and grew, and eventually, found happiness.
So she’d kissed a toad. Another one. If that kept her from ever taking a chance again, from finding her happiness, well, then the toads won.
She didn’t want the toads to win.
* * * *
Some days you owned the waves, and some days the waves owned you. Ben’s day was one of the latter.
A Surf City native, he’d started riding the waves when he was seven. There was nothing in the world he loved better than taking a board down Streamer Lane at sunset. He was at home on a surfboard as though he’d practiced first in utero, a thing his mother had accused him of having done on many occasions.
Today, however, he looked like a rank amateur. His feet couldn’t seem to find the sweet spot on the board. The rails slid from his hands when he tried to pop up. He had trouble finding the curl, and then his leash slipped so he had to spend half the morning swimming down his board. Like a skittish colt, it bolted away every time he got close.
Finally, he gave up, unzipped his wet suit, found a spot of warm sand, and lay back in the sun. He closed his eyes and let his mind wander to where it had been wanting to go all along.
Delilah.
Yeah, he’d decided he wanted her, that he’d make a play for her. He’d wrestled his conscience to its knees over it, and his desire for her had won. Maybe she and Linc had had the real deal, maybe she’d end up with him.
But it wasn’t going to happen without Ben taking a shot at it. Right or wrong, he wanted a chance with her.
So he’d decided all that, made a reasonably rational decision about it, and then faced his Waterloo on her deck last night. The feel of Delilah in his arms had blown him away. He’d all but lost it. She’d never know—he hoped—how close he’d been to taking her to the floor of that deck and having at her.
There’d been no reason involved, no thoughtful consideration of her feelings, her tender heart. He didn’t weigh what it would do to her if he made love to her and then left her in another week, like he would have to do.
He wanted her, and nothing else mattered. Maybe it was selfish and wrong. It was what it was.
He felt the sun and the salt air on his skin. He felt the pounding of the surf through the sand under his back and heard the sound of it, the power of the ocean that he loved. Those things always grounded him, centered him.
But they didn’t help him find reason. They didn’t lead him to think more of Delilah than his own desire for her.
He stayed even past the time he knew it was hopeless, past when he’d given up on finding his better self. Finally, he got up and secured his board into the back of his open Jeep. He stopped on the highway for a couple of seafood tacos and a liter of Coke. Then he called Delilah and told her how to find his house.
* * * *
Ben’s home was a little bungalow clinging to a hillside north of the city. She drove up behind him just as he’d finished unloading gear into his garage. Before he closed the overhead door, she got a look at enough equipment to stock a small surf shop. He straightened as she pulled into his drive. He was still in his long wet suit, but he’d unzipped and shed the top of it so it hung behind him from his waist.
The man looked good in a wet suit. It left no secrets about the lower half of his physique and the upper half was entirely bare. His shoulders and chest were tanned, muscular. She could see crystals of white sand sparkling in the golden-brown hair that ran down his belly. The curls on his head were windblown and sun-streaked, held back from his eyes by a yellow bandana.
He stood in the sunshine, watching while she got out of her car and walked to him. His gaze on her was hot. She wore a short, tiered skirt of apricot gauze and a halter top of white cotton eyelet. He seemed to like both—the skirt for the amount of leg it showed, and the top for the amount of breast. He took a good long time evaluating both.
There was an unconcealed intensity about him that had her slowing her pace. This wasn’t sweet, casual Ben. This was I’ve-got-hot-sex-on-my-mind Ben.
Her feet came all the way to
a halt when she was still a few steps away. He didn’t wait for her like he had the night before—he wasn’t leaving the choice in her hands.
He moved to her—close—and took her face in his hands. “Delilah,” he said, and kissed her. He only touched her with his hands and his mouth, but it was a taking, possessive kiss. His lips pressed hard against hers, a rough friction that conveyed sexual need.
When he finally pulled back he kept her head close and searched her eyes. He had no warm smile for her, nothing the least bit soft or friendly.
It was all hot desire.
“I need to shower,” he said. “Will you come inside?”
That was it, she knew. Her one moment of choice. If she said yes, he would take it as consent to all that followed. He wouldn’t be asking anything again.
She took a steadying breath before she nodded. “Yes.”
Satisfaction shone in his eyes, but he didn’t move, didn’t turn her and prod her up the walk as she expected. He had something on his mind.
“I got tested after my last relationship ended. I’ve always been careful, always used a condom. But I don’t want to with you, Delilah.” He rubbed a thumb over her lips, a hard, lingering stroke. “I need to know if that would be okay.”
She closed her eyes to that caress on her lips, felt the way it stirred her. He was asking her if she would trust him.
She opened her eyes and met his waiting gaze. “I’ve been tested, too. And I’m using reliable birth control.”
Heat flared, and he leaned closer into her. “So I can go bare?”
“Yes.”
“Come on.”
He did what she’d expected then. He turned her, and with a firm hand on the small of her back, nudged her up his sidewalk and front porch steps.
The front door was unlocked. He opened it and escorted her in. He walked her through the living room to where it merged into the dining room and a short hallway to the left opened to two bedrooms and the bath. He pointed further on. “The kitchen is there, and a screened porch beyond. Help yourself to a drink or anything else you’d like and make yourself at home. I’ll be just a few minutes.”
Ben touched his lips to hers and then went straight to the bathroom.
Delilah looked around the house from where she stood. The combined living and dining area held more plants than furniture. The corner window space of the living room held its own little conservatory, and there was another collection at the wide dining room windows. Trailing plants were suspended from the ceiling and potted tree-sized specimens filled big containers on the floor. In between there were others—on the sills, on interesting plant stands. Some bloomed in bright colors. They were vibrantly green, lush, and clearly well tended.
The screened windows were open and the furniture, even the dining set, consisted of teak patio pieces. She heard birdsong and could feel air moving with the breeze from outside.
The whole effect was of being in nature, as though the house was nothing more than a net tent enclosing a sweet little garden. She loved it. She also loved what it said about the man who owned it.
Curious, she took a couple steps into the little hall and found what she suspected. The smaller, front bedroom had been made into a den. It held the big-screen TV and video and game systems she’d expect in any man’s house. The couch there was a futon, so it could double as a guest bedroom.
Behind her, at the back of the house, was the master bedroom. It was in proportion to the small house, and so the king-size bed she could partially see took most of the floor space. She wasn’t brave enough to step any closer and didn’t believe Ben would dawdle over his shower, so she wandered to the kitchen.
She’d seen enough. The bed was covered with smooth, freshly laundered sheets. The bedding, in sea colors of green and blue, was neatly folded back.
Soon she would be there, the linen cool beneath her back, the ceiling fan lazily moving the air above her. And Ben covering her, warming her.
She poured a glass of iced tea and held it to her face. Hearing the shower turn off, she stepped through the kitchen door to the porch.
Here, the sensation of being out of doors continued. The back of the house hung out over the hillside, with pillars presumably dug into the earth supporting the deck in space. The property was untamed, with mature trees rising up to surround the porch with their canopies. Beyond that there was only sky. The afternoon sun was falling toward the water she couldn’t quite see.
He’d offered a view of the sunset, and it would be lovely.
What he hadn’t said was that they’d be able to watch it from his bed.
Delilah felt movement to her left. When she turned, she saw that his bedroom had its own entrance to the porch that ran the whole width of the house. It was composed of wide French doors with panels of windows to either side, so that nearly his entire back wall was glass that faced the porch and the sunset.
Ben stood at the open doors. Light from the south and west fell at his feet. He was wrapped in a white towel that was slung low at his hips. She could see the definition where his abs narrowed to meet his groin. And below that, the way his erection tented out the towel, not the least bit subtly.
If he’d waited for her to come to him, Delilah wasn’t sure she’d have managed it. A sharp spear of panic ran through her, nearly enough to have her turning and running.
He might have seen it. He moved, not quickly, but determinedly, and came to her. He took her tea, forgotten, from her hand and set it on a table. Then, watching her face, he took her hand. He stepped backward toward his room, until she either had to follow or pull her hand free.
She teetered at that moment, and he knew it.
His grip on her hand was firm. He wouldn’t let her go easily. Uncertain, afraid, even, she stared at their clasped hands until he spoke her name.
“Delilah.”
She looked up into his eyes. He’d spoken softly, gently. “Do I have to let you go?”
Delilah took an uneven breath and managed a small shake of her head. “No.”
“Thank God,” he whispered. He moved then, pulling her to his room. He brought her through the door to the side of his big bed.
“Thank God,” he said again, as he brought her against him.
Delilah moaned as she fell into the heat. His skin was still warm from the shower, or maybe that was just him. She touched him lightly, her palms and fingers laying over his shoulders. He wrapped her up in his warmth, his arms circling around her, his hands gripping and pulling her close.
Light reflected off the polished wood floor of the porch, and they stood in its glow. He kissed her softly, over and over, murmuring her name. He ran his hands over her—her hair, her arms, her back where it was left bare by her halter top, her hips.
His kisses got hotter, more aggressive. He fisted his hands in her skirt and used it to anchor her as he rocked his pelvis into hers. He rucked the skirt up until his hands found bare skin. He groaned then and ran his hands over her hips. With his fingers he discovered the bands of her thong and followed them until he had his hands on her ass, cupping and lifting her.
He brought her up so his hard cock rutted against her, nudging at her clit. Her body tightened, and she whimpered. She wanted, now, all that he could give her.
Ben seemed to recognize the change. He held her still tucked against his cock but leaned back so he could see her. He was breathing hard, his eyes hot with passion. He looked at her breasts, and she knew he could see the hard points of her nipples. Drawn to them, he shifted his grip so he held her with one arm below her waist. He took the other and lifted it, centering his hand over her breast. Slowly he let it fall.
The first touch came with her distended nipple against his palm. She didn’t wear a bra so it was only the two thin cotton layers of her top that separated her from the hard surface of his hand. They both watched as he moved his hand just enough to slightly chafe that tight bud.
She huffed out a needy breath. Looking up at her, he deliberately moved his
fingers until he had hold of the hard nipple. Then he rotated his fingers, squeezing down on her.
It was rough, abrupt, and forced a cry from her throat. “Ben,” she moaned. “Ben.”
He kissed her hard, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. Then he leaned back again. He tucked his fingers in the elastic waist of her skirt and slid it down over her hips, letting it fall to the floor. He went to the tie at the back of her neck and loosened it, then found the zipper at her back
The tops of her halter fell, slowly revealing her breasts as he opened the zipper. When he tore it all away, he swore.
“Jesus, God.”
She was naked other than her thong, and his gaze greedily took her in. “You’re fucking beautiful.”
He wrapped her hard against his body and lifted her. He crawled up onto the bed, laying her back and coming alongside her. He had one knee through the opening of his towel and pressed it between her thighs. Supporting himself on one elbow, he held her face and leaned in to kiss her.
“Fucking beautiful, Lilee.”
He moved his hand to her breast and fondled her while he took her mouth. His knee pushed up so he opened her legs and pressed his thigh against her pussy. He grunted once, not happy with the barrier he found there. So he lifted back a little and shoved two fingers into her thong. He stripped it down, the backs of his two fingers lingering over her clit, and tore it away.
He had wicked sex moves. His mouth was sweet, soft and teasing then rough and taking. With his hand he palmed her breast then worked her nipple until she was panting. His bare thigh was against her, massaging her clit and then rubbing her pussy, finding her moisture there.
He spoke to her through it all, telling her how he loved the taste of her, how he adored her tits, how perfect her nipples were. He told her he could tell she was wet, what a hot turn-on it was to know she wanted him.
“You do, don’t you, baby? You want me. You want me to fuck you.”
Three Men and a Woman: Delilah (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) Page 10