“You’re really going to wear that?” Ben’s voice was flat, not quite a question, more of an observation laced with a sigh. He stood in the bedroom doorway, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze sweeping over me. I’d chosen a pair of cut-off denim shorts that barely covered my ass and a tank top so thin you could practically read a newspaper through it. It was ninety degrees outside, and we were only going to the farmer’s market. What did he expect, a ball gown?
I met his stare, a slow smile spreading across my face. “What’s wrong with it?” I spun around, giving him a full view of the shorts. They were a little frayed at the edges, a little too short, and just a little too tight. Perfect. I knew exactly what he was thinking, and it amused me.
“It’s… a lot of leg. And… everything else.” He gestured vaguely at my chest. “Do you really need to go out looking like you’re trying to pick up every single vendor selling organic kale?”
I laughed, a bright, unapologetic sound. “Ben, darling, I’m with you. Who else would I be trying to pick up?” I walked over to him, tracing a finger down his arm. His muscles tensed under my touch. “Unless you’re worried I’ll attract too much attention for *your* liking?” I leaned in, my voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “Jealous, are we?”
He caught my hand, his grip firm but not painful. “I’m not jealous. I just don’t want to spend the entire morning fending off old men with fanny packs and younger guys who think a ‘hey, pretty lady’ is a valid pickup line.” He pulled me closer, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”
“Of course I do,” I murmured, pressing my body against his. The heat of him seeped through my thin clothes. “I’m getting dressed to go to the market. What else would I be doing?” I tilted my head back, looking up at him through my lashes. “Unless you want me to change? Is that what you’re saying?”
His jaw tightened. He knew that if he explicitly told me to change, I’d dig my heels in even harder. It was a game we played, one he usually lost, at least in the short term. The long term was a different story.
“No,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Wear what you want. Just don’t complain when I decide to keep you busy later.” He released my hand, but his gaze lingered on my mouth. The unspoken threat, or promise, hung in the air. That was his move. He’d let me have my small victory now, only to claim a larger one later.
“Oh, I won’t complain,” I said, my smile widening. “Not at all.” I brushed past him, grabbing my small cross-body bag. “Ready to go, then?”
The farmer’s market was exactly as Ben had predicted. Every other person seemed to be doing a double-take. I ignored them, chatting brightly with the organic honey vendor, sampling goat cheese, and haggling playfully over a bunch of ridiculously expensive heirloom tomatoes. Ben stayed close, a quiet, formidable presence at my back. I could feel his eyes on me, not just on my body, but on my face, watching my reactions, waiting.
At one point, a guy in a bright green tank top, who looked like he’d just stepped out of a gym, tried to engage me in conversation about the merits of locally sourced microgreens. I gave him a polite but firm, “No, thank you,” and turned my back, but not before I caught Ben’s almost imperceptible nod of approval. He liked that I could handle myself, even if he didn’t like the attention.
We were looking at fresh peaches when I felt a hand on my lower back. Not Ben’s. His hands were bigger, warmer, and his touch more possessive. This was a light, tentative brush, quickly withdrawn, but unmistakable. I stiffened, then turned, my eyes flashing. It was the microgreens guy, trying for a second pass. He quickly pulled his hand away, looking sheepish.
“Excuse me?” I said, my voice sweet, but with an edge that could cut.
Before he could stammer out an apology, Ben stepped forward. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He just positioned himself between me and the guy, his shoulders broad, his face unreadable. The microgreens guy took one look at Ben’s stony expression and practically tripped over himself retreating into the crowd.
I glanced up at Ben, a slow grin spreading across my face. “My hero,” I said, dripping with sarcasm, but meaning every word of the appreciation underneath. He just grunted, picked up a peach, and squeezed it gently. “That one’s ripe,” he said, his voice low. “Let’s get a few.”
As we walked away, I leaned into him, bumping my hip against his. “You know,” I said, “you didn’t have to do that. I had it handled.”
“I know,” he said, not looking at me. “But I felt like it.” His hand found my waist, his thumb tracing circles on my skin just above the hem of my shorts. His touch was a quiet assertion of ownership, a reminder of the conversation we’d had before we left the house. He was collecting on his promise, little by little.
When we got back to the car, laden with bags of produce, he opened my door, a rare courtesy. As I slid into the passenger seat, he leaned in, blocking the sun with his body. “You’re lucky you’re so cute,” he murmured, his eyes lingering on my lips. “Otherwise, I’d have left you to fight off the peach enthusiasts yourself.”
I laughed, a genuine, delighted sound. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me,” he said, his voice a challenge. He straightened up, walked around the car, and got in the driver’s side. The car filled with the smell of fresh fruit and Ben’s familiar cologne. The tension between us, that underlying hum of playful conflict and simmering desire, was almost palpable.
The rest of the afternoon was spent unpacking groceries, making lunch, and generally puttering around the house. I kept up my playful rebellion, humming off-key while he tried to read, leaving my shoes in the middle of the living room, and generally being a minor nuisance. Each time, he’d just sigh, or give me a pointed look, but he didn’t snap. He was waiting. I knew it, and it only spurred me on.
Later, we were in the kitchen. I was chopping vegetables for dinner, and he was wiping down the counters. I knew he hated it when I left the scraps of carrot and onion on the cutting board instead of immediately sweeping them into the compost bin. It was a small thing, but it was *my* thing. A tiny act of defiance.
I chopped, deliberately letting a few pieces fall onto the counter. I could feel his eyes on my back, a quiet warning. I ignored it, humming a little louder. He sighed, a long-suffering sound. Then, without a word, he moved closer. I felt the warmth of his body against my back, his arm reaching past me to grab a dishtowel.
“Mind if I just… clean up a little?” he asked, his voice deceptively mild. His other hand settled on my hip, his fingers brushing against the bare skin of my waist. I shivered, despite myself. He always knew how to get to me.
“I was going to get to it,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. My heart was starting to pick up its pace. I knew what was coming.
“Were you, now?” he murmured, his lips brushing against my ear. His breath was warm, smelling faintly of the coffee he’d had earlier. He leaned in further, his chest pressing against my back, trapping me against the counter. “Or were you just trying to see how long it would take me to snap?”
I giggled, a nervous, excited sound. “Maybe a little of both.” I swayed back against him, feeling the hard plane of his stomach, the solid warmth of his body. His hand tightened on my hip, his thumb digging in just enough to be noticeable.
He started to hum, a low, wordless tune. It was a song we both knew, one he often sang when he was about to get serious. My spine tingled. He was building the moment, drawing it out, just like I did. He was playing my game, but with his rules.
“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” he whispered, his teeth gently nipping at my earlobe. A rush of heat spread through me. “An adorable, infuriating pain in the ass.”
“Only for you,” I said, tilting my head, inviting him to do more. He did. His lips found the sensitive skin of my neck, kissing, sucking, leaving a trail of warmth. My grip on the knife slackened, and I almost dropped it. He pulled it gently from my hand, placing it safely on the cutting board.
“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice husky. “Now, where were we?” He turned me around slowly, until I was facing him, my back still against the counter. His hands moved from my hips to my waist, then up my sides, under my tank top. His fingers were warm against my skin, trailing upwards, making me gasp.
“Ben,” I breathed, my hands coming up to rest on his shoulders. His eyes were dark, intense, focused entirely on me. “We’re… we’re making dinner.”
He laughed, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through my chest. “Dinner can wait.” His thumbs brushed over the soft undersides of my breasts. I arched my back, a quiet invitation. He took it, his hands cupping me, his touch firm and knowing. A sigh escaped my lips.
“You really shouldn’t provoke me, you know,” he said, his voice a low warning. His fingers teased at my nipples through the thin fabric of my bra. “Because once I start, I don’t stop.”
“Is that a threat?” I whispered, my voice almost too quiet to hear. My body was humming, a deep, satisfying thrum of anticipation.
“It’s a promise,” he corrected, leaning down to capture my mouth. His kiss was deep, demanding, tasting of peaches and a hint of mint. I responded instantly, my tongue tangling with his, my body pressing closer, needing to feel every inch of him.
He lifted me, without breaking the kiss, and I instinctively wrapped my legs around his waist. My shorts rode up, exposing more skin to his touch. He carried me out of the kitchen, through the living room, and towards the bedroom. Each step was a jolt of pleasure, a promise of what was to come.
He kicked the bedroom door shut with his foot, then lowered me gently onto the bed. My hands immediately went to the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it up. He helped me, shedding it quickly, revealing the solid expanse of his chest, dusted with dark hair. I ran my hands over him, feeling the warmth of his skin, the tautness of his muscles. He was all solid strength, and I was melting against him.
“You always have to push it, don’t you?” he said, his voice a little rough now. He leaned over me, his weight supported by his arms on either side of my head. His eyes were hot, unblinking.
“It’s more fun that way,” I confessed, reaching up to thread my fingers through his hair, tugging gently. “You like it too.”
He gave a short, sharp nod. “Oh, I like it. I just don’t always like waiting for it.” He kissed me again, a deep, bruising kiss that left me breathless. “You’re lucky I have the patience of a saint.”
“You? A saint?” I laughed, pushing playfully at his chest. “Don’t make me laugh.”
“Oh, I’ll make you do more than laugh,” he growled, his hands moving to the waistband of my shorts. He unbuttoned them with practiced ease, then slid the zipper down. I lifted my hips, helping him. The denim slid down my legs, pooling around my ankles. He peeled them off, tossing them carelessly onto the floor.
I was left in my tiny lace thong and thin bra. He stared at me, his gaze lingering on my breasts, then tracing a path down to the curve of my hip. I felt a flush spread across my skin, a mix of shyness and fierce desire.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick. He leaned down, his lips brushing against my stomach, sending shivers through me. He kissed his way down, past my navel, stopping just above the lace of my thong. I gasped, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
“Ben,” I whispered, a plea. He didn’t respond with words, only with action. He hooked his fingers into the sides of my thong, pulling it down slowly, teasingly. I squeezed my eyes shut, my breath catching in my throat as the last barrier came away. The cool air on my sensitive skin was a shock, quickly replaced by the heat of his gaze.
He looked at me, really looked at me, a slow, appreciative scan that made every inch of my body tingle. I felt exposed, vulnerable, and utterly alive. He took his time, savoring the moment, prolonging the anticipation. That was his game. Making me wait, making me crave it.
“You’re a handful,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against my inner thigh. “But you’re my handful.”
He finally lowered his head, his tongue flicking out, just once, against my clitoris. I cried out, arching violently against the mattress. The sensation was electric, overwhelming. He chuckled, a deep, satisfied sound, and then he was there, his mouth covering me, his tongue working magic. I forgot everything else – the market, the dinner, the world outside. There was only Ben, and the incredible pleasure he was bringing me.
My fingers tangled in his hair, pulling, urging him on. He devoured me, tasting me, teasing me until I was writhing beneath him, desperate for more. My legs clamped around his head, trying to pull him closer, to deepen the connection. I was on the edge, teetering, about to fall.
Just as I felt the first tremors of an orgasm begin to build, he pulled away. I cried out in protest, my eyes flying open. He was looking at me, a wicked smirk on his face. “Not so fast, trouble,” he said, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “You’ve got to work for it.”
I glared at him, a half-hearted attempt at defiance. “You’re a monster,” I gasped, my body still quivering from the near miss. “A cruel, cruel monster.”
“Maybe,” he conceded, his smirk widening. He moved up the bed, pressing his body against mine, his hardness pressing against my aching core. “But you love my monstrous ways, don’t you?”
I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him even closer. “Just get in here,” I whispered, my voice raw with desire. “Now.”
He laughed, a triumphant sound, and then he pushed into me, slowly, deliberately, filling me completely. I gasped, a sound of pure pleasure, as our bodies finally connected. The fit was perfect, tight and encompassing. I dug my nails into his back, pulling him deeper. He groaned, his body tensing above mine.
He started to move, a slow, rhythmic thrust that built quickly in intensity. Each stroke sent a wave of pleasure through me, erasing the last vestiges of my resistance. I met his rhythm, bucking against him, my hips rising to meet his every thrust. The bed creaked under our movements, the only sound in the room apart from our ragged breathing and the occasional moan.
“Tell me,” he panted, his voice strained, his forehead pressed against mine. “Tell me who’s in charge.”
“You are,” I gasped, my body trembling on the brink of orgasm. “You are, Ben.” It was a surrender, but one I offered willingly, eagerly. This was the payoff for all my teasing, for all my playful defiance. This was the moment he claimed his victory, and I reveled in it.
He picked up the pace, driving into me harder, faster, his body a blur of motion. I held on tight, my world narrowing to the exquisite sensations he was creating. My climax hit me like a tidal wave, washing over me, leaving me breathless and spent. I cried out his name, my body arching one last time before collapsing against the mattress.
He followed quickly, a deep groan tearing from his throat as he poured himself into me. He collapsed on top of me, his weight a comforting pressure, his breath hot against my neck. We lay there for a long time, our bodies slick with sweat, our breathing slowly returning to normal. the smell of sex and our mingled bodies filled the air.
He finally stirred, lifting himself slightly. He looked down at me, his eyes soft, a contented smile playing on his lips. “See?” he said, his voice raspy. “I told you I’d keep you busy.”
I just smiled, too sated to argue. I reached up, tracing the line of his jaw. “You always do,” I murmured, my voice thick with affection. “And I always let you.”
He kissed me, a soft, tender kiss that was a world away from the hungry kisses of before. “Now,” he said, pushing himself up and rolling onto his side, pulling me with him. I curled into his side, my head on his chest. “About that dinner…”
I laughed, a tired, happy sound. “It can wait,” I said, echoing his earlier words. “Definitely can wait.” I snuggled closer, feeling the steady beat of his heart under my ear. The game was over, for now. But I knew, and he knew, it would start all over again tomorrow.