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The idea of Benji as more than a friend made a curious little flutter start up in my gut.
“Jeremy wouldn’t even share his Transformers with me. You really think he’s going to share his best friend?”
“A date.” “With me,” I said, my heart hammering at how close this was to what I really wanted and couldn’t have. “For practice.” “For practice,” he said slowly.
I wanted Benji. I wanted to hold him, kiss him. More than that, though, I wanted his heart. Because he already had mine. Consequences be damned.
“Wasn’t hard to figure out. Dude’s always hanging around, looking at you with heart eyes.”
“Maybe I don’t need you to be fun,” I said, squeezing his hand. “Maybe I just need you to be you.” The smile that spread across his face was gorgeous.
His eyes searched mine. “Tell me what you want. Because this wasn’t just sex for me, and if it was for you—” “No,” I blurted, stunned at the emotion that had choked his voice. It hit me, then, that this wasn’t just something happening to me. It was happening to him too. He was with me in this. We were navigating this unexpected, new stage of our lives together.
I looked down at my hands, my precious, artist’s hands that drew beautiful things — and sometimes naughty things — and sighed mournfully. With a mental apology to them, I stepped up to the counter and prepared to molest a turkey.
Benji’s hands slid under my shirt, caressing muscles with those artist’s fingers. I didn’t know why, but knowing what else those hands could do made his touches even sexier. It was ridiculous, but I was turned on by his talent.
