Page 44 of Sugar Baby Mine

“I just have to get dressed, then I can catch an Lyft.”

“Lovely. I’ll see you soon then, Emmeline. Be safe on the way over.”

Tossing my phone on the bed, I lay back down for a moment and scrub my hands over my bare face and let out a groan. There’s no way I’m going over there without putting a little makeup on.

It’s an hour and a half before I’m raising my fist to knock on Ben’s door. Surprisingly, he only texted me twice inquiringwhether I’ve been kidnapped or died in a car accident.

He pulls the door open after a short while and steps to the side to invite me inside. I let my gaze roam over him as I slide past, admiring the fitted black t-shirt that hugs his biceps and shows off the abstract tattoo sleeve that covers his entire right arm.

I haven’t had much of a chance to admire him, but I expect I might tonight.

“Nice to see you alive and well,” he teases.

“Sorry, I may have lied when I said I just had to get dressed. But surely you could have inferred that I’d be late by now with all your years of experience.”

“Oh, I have. But I literally couldn’t care less about what you’re wearing today. Or about what you put on your face.”

And if that doesn’t just about strike me dead.

Because somehow it doesn’t seem like it’s all just words to get into my pants.

“That’s appreciated, but I like looking put together for you at least.” The only time I’d consider myself as such.

Hanging my jacket and purse on the hook in the entryway gives me goosebumps as I recall Ben’s hands turning me and pressing me up against the wall. I wouldn’t mind a repeat performance, but he waits for me to finish before reaching out his hand to me.

I slip my fingers into his palm, and he reels me in until we’re pressed chest to chest. He lays my hand on his shoulder before skating his fingertips down the length of my torso.

“This color makes your eyes seem so bright,” Ben murmurs, gripping my waist with both hands, sending a thrill down my spine.

“It’s the same shade as my lipstick.” I grip the fabric of his shirt in my hand. His eyes focus on my lips, and he makes a hum of approval. “I wore it last time, too.”

His eyes swallow me whole, all the way down to the heels he bought me clicking against the wood floor as I shift on my feet.Though I don’t think this is about to be a repeat of last time, despite the way he’s looking at me.

“It suits you,” he says, hand rising to grip my chin between his fingers and drag our mouths together.

We kiss slowly, drinking each other in and savoring the flavor.

I almost throw my hands around his neck and beg for more when he finally pulls away.

“Why don’t you take your heels off? I want you to be comfortable while we’re in the kitchen.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice when it comes to that. Next time I should bring a pair of slippers to wear, too.” I grin, enjoying the way he rolls his eyes. Spinning around, I slip out of the heels and place them delicately underneath my jacket before rising back up and tugging on the hem of the violet fabric at my thighs. I wish I’d worn some tights with this dress.

I step forward until my toes are touching the end of his brown, fuzzy slippers. He circles my wrist with one hand and holds me in place as I tip my head back to look up at him. The difference in our heights is more obvious when barefoot.

His eyes roam over my face, and I’m sure my lipstick actually smudged despite the label telling me it wouldn’t, when he brings his thumb up to brush over my bottom lip. But I’m just as bad, focused on the way his beard looks a little more unkempt today and how I want to comb it through with my fingers. His eyes look tired, but as dark and dangerous as every time I’ve seen him. I almost offer that we take a nap instead.

“Have you had chicken piccata before?”

I lean into his touch and shake my head. “Sounds Italian.”

Ben shrugs, fingers trailing down my neck and sweeping the loose waves of my hair back off my shoulder. “It’s Italian-American. The classic Italian version uses veal.”

I scrunch my nose up. “That’s where I draw the line in my meat consumption. I’m not eating a baby cow.”

“Like I said, we’re having chicken.” He chuckles, tugging on my wrist and directing me toward the kitchen.

I give a sigh of relief.

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