Kristen Ashley - The Promise

They were also not good thoughts because Benny worked late and I wanted to see him, but I also needed sleep.

Maybe I’d nap while he was at the restaurant.

“Uh…honey, you came back to me. I’m not workin’ tonight,” Benny said, cutting into my thoughts.

“You’re callin’ in Vinnie Senior?” I asked, not certain how I felt about that either because it would mean there would be little delay in the Bianchis knowing I was back.

“No. Manny can cover the kitchen for a day or two. He does it sometimes when I got a day off and he doesn’t fuck up my kitchen when he does it. Long haul, though, Man doesn’t have it in him. It’s gotta be Pop.”

I found that interesting.

I didn’t have the time to find out why that was interesting.

I only had the time to say, “All right.”

“I’ll give Man a call, get to the restaurant, make sure everything’s sorted for him. So, again, when am I gonna see you?”

“Around six.”

“Right. Then see you around six.”

Suddenly, I felt extremely happy and couldn’t keep it out of the “Yeah” I gave to him.

“Yeah.” He gave it back to me.

I drew in a steadying breath.

“Later, Benny.”

“Later, Frankie.”

I disconnected and looked down the hall to where Trey, my rep, was standing, head bent to his phone, thumb moving over it, expression set to annoyed.

And I thought, Fuck him. I was good at my job, even if the learning curve meant that for four months, my downtime was spent with my nose in patient information leaflets, company brochures, past sales reports, and team evaluations.

He was going to have to suck it up.

I was there to stay.

Or, at least for the next minute.

The one after that, we’d see.

I had butterflies at the same time I was experiencing pleasantly unpleasant (or unpleasantly pleasant) flashbacks as I parked in front of Benny’s house.

I sucked in a breath, grabbed my purse and computer, and exited my rental car.

When I did, as if she had a sixth sense, I saw Mrs. Zambino standing out on her stoop, high-heeled boots on, hair up, arms crossed on her chest that was covered in a sweater I was pretty certain I saw a celebrity wearing in last week’s issue of Us magazine.

She wore it better.

She was staring at me, a severe look on her face.

Well, there you go. Benny’s family was Switzerland, but Mrs. Zambino was pissed at me.

I ignored that, juggled my bags, waved enthusiastically, and called, “Hey there, Mrs. Zambino!”

Her body jerked in a peeved way, then she turned and stomped into her house.

I made a mental note I had work to do with Mrs. Zambino and turned toward Benny’s.

I was at the top of the stoop when the door opened.

Then I wasn’t at the top of the stoop, seeing as Benny’s arm flashed out, hooked me around the waist, and yanked me inside.

The door slammed shut about a second before I slammed against the wall of Ben’s foyer, pinned there by Benny.

“Couch or bed?” he asked, his eyes an inch from mine, and a throb pulsed between my legs.

“Wh-what?” I asked back, following, but not able to process what was happening quickly enough to make an appropriate response.

“Bed,” he rumbled, his eyes dropping to my mouth. “Room to move. We’ll break in the couch when I’m focused.”

When he was focused?

What did that mean?

I had no chance to ask. My purse and computer bag were on the floor, my hand was in Benny’s, and he was dragging me toward the stairs.

When we hit the stairs, I still had no chance to talk, since I had to concentrate on where my feet were taking me so I didn’t slam face-first into a stair.

After that, I had to concentrate on not tripping down the hall.

Then I had to concentrate on staying upright when Ben whirled me to face him, my back to the foot of the bed, and he pulled my trench with blazer down my arms and tossed them aside.

Only then did I slam my hands on my hips as I glared into his eyes and snapped, “Well, hello, Benny Bianchi.”

His reply was to plant his hand on my chest and shove.

I let out a small scream and hit the bed on my back.

Benny hit me.

Then his mouth hit mine.

And then he was kissing me.

It finally filtered through my brain that this was hot, all of it. He was kissing me and I liked the way he tasted. So I wound my arms around him and kissed him back.

If I had time to think about it that day (which I didn’t), I would have thought the first time was about uncontrolled emotion, need, and the fact I hadn’t been laid in over seven years. I was getting laid by Benny Bianchi, all of this explaining why it went so fast, burned so bright, and felt so good.

But luckily, I didn’t have time to think about it. Because if I did, I would have started fretting about when it would go slower and I’d have plenty of time to sink right into my head like I had with Vinnie. Wondering if I was doing something right. Wondering if he liked something I was doing, if I was exciting him, or if he was just hard, ready, and going through the motions so he could get inside me and finish things.

If I’d had time to think about it, it would have embedded itself in my head so it would be all about if I was doing it right, out of practice, or never really had the skill in the first place, and if Benny liked what I was doing.

I didn’t have the time to think about it that day, and I really didn’t have the time to think of it in that moment.

This was because Benny was action man. I should have known, considering he rarely missed opportunities.

Me in his bed without stitches in me, he wasn’t missing this one.

It was about hands and mouths and noises. Touch and taste. The scent of his aftershave. The titillating sound of him pulling the zipper down at the back of my dress. His hands moving in to glide skin against skin along my sides. The taste of his neck. The feel of his hardness against my thigh, my belly, my hip. The silky caress of the lining of my dress as he yanked it over my head. His tongue at my nipple over my bra. The feel of his hair in my hands. The excitement of him tearing my panties down my legs.

And then it happened.

He spread my legs, rolled between, and put his mouth to me.

Already ignited through sensory exploration, the feel of him against me made me combust.

I dug my heels into the bed to drive myself further into his mouth, but did this for a nanosecond before he swung my legs over his shoulders.

It was then I dug my heels in his back. He growled against my sex and it didn’t hit me I was still wearing spiked heels. It also didn’t hit me that it was not a growl of pain but something else entirely.

He feasted on me, then his mouth closed around my clit, sucked hard, and he thrust two fingers inside.

“God,” I cried out, doing a full body arch, driving my hips deeper to Ben’s mouth.

I had been beyond excited, but the climax that slammed through me at what Benny was giving me was a surprise.

More of a surprise, Ben pushed it. He sucked, he finger-fucked me, and I dug my heels in his back, straining for more, moaning and whimpering.

He pulled his fingers out, dragged his tongue through my wetness, and I shuddered against him only to feel him pull away from me.

I opened my eyes, closed my legs, lifted my head, found him standing at the foot of the bed, and I whispered, “No.”

“Not leavin’ you, baby,” Ben whispered back before he tore off his tee and went for his jeans.

At seeing that, I moved.

I was up on my knees in the bed wearing nothing but lace-topped thigh highs, spike-heeled pumps, and my bra by the time Ben was naked. His dark, hot eyes roamed all over me, his lips rumbling, “Jesus,” and he moved back to me.

His arms closed around me, mine closed around him, and he fell forward, taking me back.

I wrapped my legs around him as he reached to his nightstand.

He gave me his mouth, even as he angled his hips away, kissing me, and please, God, rolling on a condom at the same time.

Suddenly, I felt the tip of his cock glide through my wetness, and just as suddenly, he was inside.

And again, I had Benny.

“Yes,” I breathed in his mouth.

“Fuck yes,” Ben groaned against mine and took my mouth again in a deep, wet kiss as he pounded inside me.

It lasted a while. It felt awesome for that while. Ben alternately kissed me or moved his mouth to play at my neck for that while. And if I could think of anything but all that Benny was making me feel, I wouldn’t have been able to say which I liked better (though, probably kissing).

But I knew he was ready and he wanted me there with him when his hand went between us, thumb to my clit, and he coaxed me right where he wanted me to be.

It didn’t take a lot of coaxing.

My limbs spasmed around him and my cry drove down his throat as he took me over the edge.

I held tight and enjoyed the ride as, a couple minutes later, Ben joined me.

He stayed deep and I felt his ragged breaths turn smooth against my neck as his hands, slow and gentle, roamed over me, shoving under me, anywhere he could get to me.

Finally, his lips trailed up my neck to my mouth where he brushed mine, he locked eyes with me, and finally, ending the festivities in a sweet, tender way I’d remember for the rest of my life, he skimmed the tip of my nose with his and I saw his eyes start smiling.

“Hello, Frankie.”

It was his turn to see my eyes smile when I replied, “Hello, Benny.”

“You wear thigh highs every day?” he asked, and my brows drew together at the strange question.

“Yes.”

“Lace tops?”

“Mostly.”

He looked to the pillow above my head and muttered, “Fuck me.”

This confused me.

“Is that bad?” I asked.

He looked back at me. “How many doctors and reps you got who are guys?”

“Um…” I mumbled as answer, which was all I had to do. He got me.

“Right,” he murmured.

“They can’t see them, Benny,” I pointed out.

“They can, Frankie.”

That was when my eyes went squinty. “They can’t.”

“Okay, maybe not, but they can sense them.”

Seriously?

“No they can’t!” I snapped.

“Your legs, your ass, you in a dress, they absolutely can. And if they can’t, then they’re hopin’ you’re in thigh highs, and trust me, you are inspiration for good visualization, even if a man doesn’t normally have that skill.”

Although that was a compliment, the thought of the people I worked with visualizing anything about me, I couldn’t go there. So I didn’t.

“Okay, they can. Then…so?” I gave in to move on.

This time his brows went up. “So?”

“Yeah. So?”

“Babe, you get what’s goin’ on here, yeah?”

Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe, so it sounded winded and a little unsure when I said, “Yeah.”

“This is you and me, and that means only you for me and only me for you. That means you’re mine and just fuckin’ me. That means, me bein’ full-blood Italian, not a big fan of you off meetin’ with guys who are thinkin’ about you in a bra, panties, thigh highs, and your heels.”

All uncertainty left me and, again, my eyes got squinty. “I can’t quit my job because men think with their dicks.”

“You can wear slacks,” he returned. “And nix the heels and buy some flats.” He paused before he finished, “Ugly ones.”

“I’m not wearin’ ugly shoes!” I said loudly.

“Okay, then buy some not-ugly flats.”

“I’m not wearin’ flats. Or slacks,” I declared.

He stared at me a moment before he repeated, “Fuck me.”

“Can we stop talking about this so you can feed me?” I asked, then added, “I’m hungry.”

His expression shifted from sex-satisfied with the addition of aggravated to sex-satisfied with the addition of warm affection before he asked, “What you want?”

I wanted one of Benny’s pies. What I didn’t want was him to have to go to the restaurant to make one.

Nevertheless, to make a choice, I needed more information. “What are my choices?”

“Barbeque chicken sandwiches or anything that delivers.”

“I take it your ma’s provisions ran out.”