I taste him — bitter and thick — as his cum slides down my throat and I keep my mouth on him long after his hands have withdrawn to grip the bench, like he thinks he’d fly up off it if he didn’t. And I love it. I love everything about this man who I can tear apart to pieces and then put back together with just my body.
Sliding my fingers out of him, I move to hold him, to bring him down onto the floor in my arms while he recovers, but again, he’s quicker. He practically rugby tackles me to the ground and a second later his hand is between my legs. I’m ridiculously wet from my climax earlier and from going down on Benji, and he takes full advantage stroking my dick the exact way I like — firm and strong — and it’s all I can do to hold onto him as he takes me closer and closer and closer, until I’m standing on the edge of an orgasm so big and encompassing, I don’t know what the other side will look like.
But I dive in. Willingly, I give myself over to Benji, to the orgasm, to our possible future.
Instantly, my bravery is rewarded with delicious waves of pleasure that go on and on and on until I’m squeezing my eyes shut and hiding my face against Benji’s neck. And heholds me. He holds me so tightly my ribs struggle to expand and get the air I so desperately need.
“Let’s move in together,” I gasp before the orgasm has even relinquished its grip on me.
“What?” Benji moves back to stare at me, stunned.
“Can I move in with you?” I ask after a deep breath.
“Yes, fuck, yes!” He holds me so tightly again I wonder if he thinks I’ll wriggle away. I hope he doesn’t think that. I hope he never thinks that.
“I love you, Benji,” I tell him with all the sincerity my body holds, which surprisingly, is a lot. “I always want to be close to you.”
I should say it in French. That’s how it was written in my Valentine’s card. But my French accent is a little rusty and I want him to hear me loud and clear. I think he does when he moves to bury his mouth against my neck, leaving one hundred little kisses over my jawline and earlobe.
“Je veux toujours être près de toi,” he says in French. And what do you know, I understand him,mon amour, perfectly.
BONUS EPILOGUE
SOMETHING ABOUT PARIS
DION
“Areyou sure you’ve got everything?” Mum asks from the driver’s seat.
“Yes, Mum,” I roll my eyes before closing them. I knew we should have just got a taxi to the airport. I know she means well, but I don’t need her second-guessing my packing abilities when Benji and I have been looking forward to and preparing for this trip for the last six months.
“We used this app to help pack, actually,” Benji says from his position next to her in the passenger seat. Dad nobly insisted he sit there, claiming – factually – that Benji’s legs were way too long to sit in the back with me, but my goofy boyfriend all but refused until Mum and I made sure Dad was already sitting in the back while Benji put our bags in the boot. “It’s for packing lists. Well, any list really. Shopping lists. To-do lists. Wish lists. Anyway. You can share lists with other people, check off stuff, like three times, if you want, add notes... And also save them as templates for future trips, if we need to.”
I open my eyes just to roll them again, but this time I’m also working hard to hide my smile. Not hard enough, apparently, as Dad nudges my side with his elbow. He winks at me.
“And what are you planning on doing in Paris?” Mum asks. “Did you write a list for that?”
“No! Maybe we should have!” Benji laughs. “But we just want to do the usual things. The Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, Montmartre-”
“Not get engaged,” I interrupt to add, and it not only shuts Benji up; it feels like it sucks all the air out of the car.
Benji is the one to break the silence with a spluttering laugh. “He’s joking. Sort of,” he catches my eye in the rearview mirror. He’s smiling at me, I think, which I probably don’t deserve. But that fits. Most of the time, I really don’t deserve this beautiful man. “We don’t want anyone to think we’re going to Paris to get engaged.”
“Why would we think-” Mum begins with a little bit too much volume in her voice.
“Everyone expects you to get engaged in Paris,” I cut in to clarify. “Especially me and Benji because, you know, he’s French and we’ve been there together before and blah, blah, blah. I know you two have talked about it.” My dad holds his hands up, palms facing out, which only confirms my suspicions. “But it’s not going to happen. We’re going to Paris because…”
I actually can’t think of a suitable alternative explanation, which is ridiculous because, as I said, we’ve been planning this trip and using Benji’s stupid list app for half a damn year!
“We’re going to Paris because it’s a great city for a weekend break,” Benji comes to my rescue. “And I haven’t been back to France in over two years. Paris feels… easier to return to than where my mum’s from, so… I guess it’s a bit of a therapeutic visit in many ways.”
My mum reaches across the gear stick to find Benji’s hand and hold it.
There was no doubt in my mind that my family would welcome Benji into it with open arms, but even I have been surprised by how close Benji has become with my parents. My brother and sister, too, but they’re off living their own lives. Now Benji is part of the team I have become with Mum when it comes to taking care of Dad. Benji makes himself available for appointments if Mum or I can’t make them. He regularly does shopping trips or runs to the chemist for prescriptions. And he often accompanies Dad to the local pub when there’s a footie match playing that they both want to watch.
We’ve not talked about it in great detail, but I can’t help but wonder if Benji’s bond with both my mum and dad is healing not only his recent grief but also that of losing a father figure as a child.
“You boys do whatever you want to do,” Dad says. “In Paris. Go to all the art galleries. Eat all the food. Drink all the wine. Don’t do any proposing. At all.”
