Page 57 of Storm in a Teacup
“Yeah?”
He brushes the spoon over my skin again, and again I shiver. He smirks, moving it to my other leg. My body reacts again, but no longer to the cold, a trail of sensual hunger following the smooth metal. He grabs another spoon, setting it to the side before he crowds me, closing the drawer with his hip, and settling into the space between my legs.
“You like this?”
I swallow, admitting, “I don’t hate it.”
He runs the spoon down my cheek, dragging it over to my lips and across them. A dull ache pulses through my entire being. When he lets it leave my lips, I involuntarily dart my tongue out to wet them. His eyes catch on my mouth, focusing in.
Then he moves away so swiftly that I need a moment to catch my breath. That spoon gets discarded in the sink as he picks up the other one he set out. The new spoon dips into the saucepan, then he taps his finger into the spoon before putting that finger in his mouth for a taste. Ben muses over it, then plunges the spoon into the sauce again, but this time, he swivels toward me.
He places himself again in the space between my legs and whispers, “Try,” before dipping the spoon into my mouth. I am hit with a bold lemon and herb flavor. Delicious.
The pleasure must show on my face because his mouth quirks up. “Good?”
“Yeah,” I breathe.
“You’ve got a bit…” His thumb finds the corner of my mouth, swiping across it gently to rid any remnants of the sauce. However, instead of wiping his thumb on a napkin, he dips it into my mouth. My tongue brushes the pad and then I find myself sucking lightly. What did I say about him not putting his fingers in my mouth anymore? Glad I specifiedin public.
His eyes are fixated so heavily on my lips. Without even thinking about what I’m doing, I give him a subtle nod.
He accepts that nod and moves in, pulling his thumb to my cheek and finding my lips with his. I melt into him as his mouth opens on mine, our tongues meeting.Fuck. I knew I wasn’t romanticizing our first kiss from all those months ago. My legs cage his waist, pulling him closer as his hands get trapped in my hair. His mouth is like lightning. Shocking, intense, shattering.
His lips move to my neck, skating kisses across my pulse.
“Ben,” I heave.
“Hm?” he murmurs into my skin.
“What are we doing?”
He draws away, glancing up at me devilishly. “I’m kissingyour neck.”
“Okay. Cool.” I pull him back up to my lips, tongue plunging into his mouth as his grip glides down to my hips. I drag my fingers through his hair, grasping on tightly as he devours me.God,I’m obsessed with his hair, so thick, soft, and coarse.
His fingers find the base of my oversized sweater, moving underneath to brush against my bare skin. His hands are warm, sending fire through my body. I need his hands all over me. We separate so I can pull the sweater over my head and toss it to the side. Ben aims for my lips again, but pauses before reaching his destination.
“Is that a tattoo?”
I follow his eyes to the French script on the side of my ribs. “Clearly.”
“I like it.” His tender fingers brush over the inked skin, admiring. “What does it mean?”
I huff out a sigh, wondering if this isreallythe time to talk about my tattoo, as I say, “‘Chacun voit midi à sa porte.’ Literal translation: ‘everyone sees noon at their door.’ It means: everyone sees things in their own way.”
I yank his lips back to mine as he smiles into the kiss. Eventually, his mouth trails away, moving to my neck again. This time, he travels down from my neck until he is kissing the top of my breast. Then his lips are tracing over the hard point fighting its way through the thin fabric of my bra. His hands skim over the lace, gently tugging it down so those lips can meet my tight and pinching nipple. His mouth is soft, tongue gliding over the peak, then he is gently sucking.
“Fuck, Ben,” I breathe, hand lacing through his hair, holding him to my chest. His teeth lightly scrape over my nipple, making me whimper. Vaguely, I think I hear something, but I hardlyacknowledge it, distracted by the overwhelming sensation of his mouth on my breast.
But then I hear it again. Knocking. And Isla’s voice shouting, “Ben! We’re here!” Knocking again.
“Ben,” I say. Then more firmly, tugging his hair. “Ben.” He pulls away, staring up at me in a daze. “Your sister is here.”
“My sister?”
Isla knocks again.
Then he stands up straight and says, “Shite. My sister.” He fixes my bra so it is again covering me, then fetches my sweater, tossing it my direction.
