Page 30 of The Legend Next Door
I saved them.
They’re no longer uncomfortable. I am.
Ben and I stand on the porch and watch as they leave. When they’re out of earshot, he says, “How does apple pie and ice cream for breakfast sound?”
“Sounds like the exact thing that’s been missing from my life.”
As I follow him down the hall, he looks back, eyes glinting like they did last night when he poured the tequila. “What was all that about you being a fan of Mr. and Mr. Poetry On Ice back there?” One cheek creases and his mouth dips preemptively, announcing he’s about to say something he thinks is funny. “I’m offended. I thought you weremyfan.”
“Oh, Ben.” As I speak, my spine contracts from the sickly saccharine sound oozing from my larynx. “When it comes to you, I’m not just a fan… I’m yourbiggestfan.”
Oh fucking fuck.That was horrible. It was terrible. And the worst of it is, I can’t stop. I can’t stop flirting with this man, and I’ve lost all semblance of control over my face. I know it. I can feel it. I may as well have pulsing heart eyes drawn on me as I sit across from him at the kitchen island and watch him eat.
Ben’s lips part, bottom jaw dropping just enough to offer me a glimpse of his tongue. He spoons the pie into his mouth, and when it hits his tastebuds, he emits a low, rumbling sound. A sound, incidentally, that my dick registers precisely the same way it registers the soundtrack of approximately ninety percent of the porn I consume.
The entire time we eat, I struggle to regain control of my face. When I’m not doing that, I think deeply inappropriate things about Ben.
I think about licking his spoon when he’s not looking. Reaching over the marble countertop, grabbing it, and dragging my tongue all over it so I can taste something he’s touched. I’d put it back before he realizes anything is amiss. I think about it so much and with such intensity, I start thinking that doing it and getting away with it is not only possible, it’s probable.
He doesn’t put the spoon down, which is fortunate because it scuppers my plan. Instead, I shift my focus, studying the way he handles this basic piece of cutlery like it’s my job. He handles it like a pro. Like a pro-fucking-fessional athlete. Like a man with overdeveloped spatial awareness and exceptional fine-motor coordination. A man who knows things.
A man who knows how to make people moan.
A man who’s soft and hard at the same time.
A gentleman.
A leader.
A gentle man.
A soft Dom.
I’ve googled it at length now, and I know exactly what a soft Dom is. I wasn’t sure when Ness first said it, but I liked how it sounded. Now that I know more about it, I know that even more than freshly baked apple pie and ice cream for breakfast, a soft Dom named Ben is what’s been missing from my life.
Ben cradles the spoon gently, resting the handle on the fleshy cushion between his thumb and pointer. I think about licking his fingers instead of the spoon. Scraping my bottom teeth against the pads and following that with a flick of my tongue.
His fingers are long and thick. They look heavy.
Meaty.
I want them.
His thumb. His pointer.
Fuck, I don’t care which finger. Any of his fingers will do, but ideally, I’d like at least two. I’d like to circle them with my hand and shove them into my mouth so deep that I gag.
Jesus.
I need help. I’m out of control. I’ve taken leave of my senses. I need to get out of here and get myself into therapy. Stat.
I’m on a call to Vanessa the second my feet make contact with the cobbled path that leads to my house. I talk in the quiet, hissing tones often used by people experiencing a sharp decline in their mental health. The conversation is short and to the point. It mainly consists of me saying, “I need therapy,” repeatedly.
“Ah, I understand,” says Vanessa, using her work voice to disguise the fact that she’s taking a personal call in an open-plan office. “I can be there in an hour. Will that work for you?”
I’m in no state to drive, so I take an Uber. Vanessa is waiting for me by the time I get there. She’s wearing a pencil skirt and her hair down, and as always, seeing Work Vanessa takes me a minute to get used to. I’m better friends with Sweats-and-Messy-Bun Vanessa.
She approaches at speed and hugs me tightly. I let out a breath that sounds like a sob. She eyes the door of our favorite independent bookstore and says, “Are you sure we should be here? Is it wise, Jer?”
