Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [171]
Suddenly, Ben is standing behind me, his hands lightly massaging my neck. “Thanks, Mira,” he whispers. “You were great.”
I don’t know whether it’s Ben’s hands on my neck or his breath in my hair or the exhilaration of being back in the kitchen, but I’m suddenly in Ben’s arms kissing him, and I’m pretty sure that it was my idea. He presses his body into mine, which is a good thing because my legs are suddenly weak, and were he to let go, I’d surely fall, but he doesn’t. Instead, he reaches behind me and grabs a handful of my hair in his hand and gently, effortlessly removes the clips.
Ryan makes a lot of noise coming back into the kitchen and says loudly to no one in particular that he thinks he’ll be going now.
Richard is still sleeping in my living room, so we go to Ben’s apartment, which is much closer anyway. We only half undress before we start making love in Ben’s living room, frantically gasping and clutching at each other. Afterward, we both fall into an exhausted sleep on the couch. When I awake the next morning, I’m alone. It’s early; the sun is still on the rise, sending its diffuse rays through Ben’s old glazed windows. He has covered me with a blanket and slipped a pillow underneath my head. I feel such a sense of relief, both physical and sexual, and I’m tempted to give in to it, to roll over and fall back asleep. But I can’t. Chloe will be awake soon, and I don’t want her to wake up wondering where I am. I throw off the covers and search the floor for my clothes, which I can’t even remember removing, trying not to think about having to explain to Richard, who will be waking soon, where I’ve been.
“Don’t move,” Ben says from the doorway, holding a tray, the morning papers tucked beneath his arm. I have no idea how long he has been standing there watching me. “I’ve been up for an hour, making breakfast for us. You have no idea how intimidating it is cooking for a chef.”
I’m suddenly shy, and then, remembering my lust last night, I feel my face begin to color. Embarrassed, I draw the blanket up around my breasts.
Ben sits down next to me and lays the tray on the coffee table in front of us. He doesn’t look at me, but instead busies himself with its contents, sorting silverware and plates.
“I couldn’t move you,” he says. “You were out, and I couldn’t sleep, so I got up and cooked. I figured you’d be hungry.” Ben pours me a cup of coffee and hands me a chipped china mug.
“Thanks,” I whisper, my voice breathless and scratchy. I sit up and arrange the blanket to cover myself.
“Don’t,” Ben says quietly, reaching over and gently pulling the blanket from my breasts. “I didn’t get to—last night, I mean. I didn’t get a chance to look at you.” He reaches over and traces my nipple lightly with one finger, and I moan softly as he cups my breast. The breakfast is forgotten. Ben takes the lead now, taking me by the hand and leading me to the bedroom where he makes love to me again, this time slowly and carefully.
“You know, this would have been much better if we’d eaten it hot,” he says later, munching a forkful of eggs. We’re lying together in a tangle of sheets, the remains of the breakfast, now cold, lying on top of us.
“That’s okay. You’re really good at making”—I pause for effect and gaze lasciviously at Ben—“coffee.”
“Thanks. You were great last night, by the way,” Ben says, leering at me in return, “. . . in the kitchen.”
“Touché,” I say, pulling the covers up over me.
“That’s really what got me going. You made it all seem so easy. You were formidable, commanding, quick. It was very, very sexy,” Ben says, softly nuzzling my neck and kissing me lightly on the ear.
“Hey, how come you never mentioned before that your friend’s brother had a restaurant?” I ask.
Ben pulls away and busies himself sorting through the morning newspapers we’d scattered in a heap on the floor. “I don’t really know the guy,” he says, picking up the Food section and tossing me the rest.
Confused,