Tug-at-your-heartstrings new adult first love story.
What starts as a bet to avoid cleanup duties at her minimum wage cashier job, wins Amelie D'Amico more than she's ever hoped for.
When Ben, a cute customer who always checkouts at her register, fi...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The smell of coffee is the first thing I note when my brain transitions from the deep, restful sleep into awareness. The blackout shades keep the room murky grey—such a contradiction to the clarity and brightness in my head. I feel good. Rested. Content. A first in how long? A year? More, since before Dad's diagnosis.
What time is it? I roll over and the emptiness to my left confirms my suspicion. Ben let me sleep in. I sit up, ready to go find him, but I'm naked. I could look for my clothes, instead I take the light grey sheet from the bed, wrap it around me, clutch the ends to my chest, and open the door into the living room. Brilliant sunny view of Chicago's skyline blinds me for a second, and then Ben's naked butt blinds me all over again.
"What time is it?" I approach the kitchen, where he's busy with two pans and a toaster. The black apron he dons doesn't leave much to the imagination.
"Eight-forty-seven," he says. "I wanted to let you sleep until nine."
Almost nine? That explains the relaxed state I'm in.
"Breakfast is almost ready. I made coffee, but it's the first time for me." Ben takes a mug from the cabinet above the stove and places it next to the French press.
"Lots of firsts." And I hope to continue the streak for him. I push the plunger, and the smell of coffee washes over me again. "Mmm, is this the leftover coffee for the salmon recipe?"
"No. I asked Mike to get some as a surprise for you. It's dark roast, and he bought the French press as well." Ben returns his attention to the breakfast sausages and eggs sizzling in front of him.
The coffee is black and strong and the bitter goodness of my first sip is another thing that makes this a perfect morning. I inhale the complimentary aromas of coffee, eggs, toast and browning meat. I'm in heaven. "I love it, and the breakfast smells divine—you went all out."
"You are worth it."
He thought I was worth it? Have I ever heard anyone say that to me? That might be a first. As I watch Ben's careful, measured movements in the kitchen, the light of that morning seeps in, warning me on the inside. A glimmer of delight whispers that I'm the luckiest girl in Chicago, maybe even the US. What nonsense.
Breakfast at the glass table in his open dining-room wrapped in a sheet with a technically naked Ben is akin to a vacation at an island resort or a painting on a gallery wall, full of airiness and shimmering rays. It captures perfectly the delicate joy that seems to take a permanent place in my heart.
I chew on the last piece of toast dipped in the bright yellow liquid of the sunny side up eggs he made. The bottom wasn't burnt, and the yolk wasn't overcooked. My senses are having a celebration. The food and coffee hit the spot and I keep throwing covert glances at Ben across the table. He is the feast for my eyes. I catch myself grinning. I love his apron but I'm ready for it to come off. Ready to satisfy the final hunger that's clawing at my chest.
"Why are you wearing an apron?" I examine the light smattering of freckles on his chest and shoulders.
"I didn't want to get burned if anything hot splattered on me."
"I mean, why are you wearing nothing but an apron?"
"Oh, my clothes are in the bedroom. I didn't want to wake you up."
"Huh. I had half a thought that you were seducing me." I'm flirting so hard. Not sure any of it is necessary. If I just ask him to take it off, he'd probably do it but old habits die hard. And I like having this permission to flirt with Ben.
He puts his elbows on the sleek glass surface and leans in. "So, you like your men barefoot, naked, and in the kitchen?" He tilts his head and a corner of his mouth moves up. Ben's flirting with me too. I love it.
I beam at him and mimic his position at the table. "I guess so." Breakfast is over. Time to finish what we started last night. I reach out to draw a circle on the top of his hand and push my agenda. "Although I'm ok with naked and in any room—outside would work as well." I wait to see if he makes the first move.
When he gets up and takes off his apron, I full-on smile. He got my meaning loud and clear. I'm off my chair and I let the grey sheet pool at the bottom of my feet. The heat of seeing that Ben's ready paints my skin a subtle pink. We meet in the middle. Collide. Everything is a blur at first: mouths, hands, skin, breaths. A million things I want to do and all at once. Choosing one is breaking my brain again. Focusing on last night's promise I slide down. Inch by inch I get to lick his skin and he lets me. I rest my knees on the ball of grey sheets and I use my mouth on him.
"Fuck." It's his turn to curse and I'm loving his reaction. His hands go to my shoulders, bracing and steadying my rhythm. "Fuck." The second one has the guttural rawness to it. Better than my hand, better than his hand, I hope. I twirl my tongue, touch all the points that I've learned are going to make it better for him. His fingers move into my hair and press me to him. I can take it, but can he? "Fuck." That one is the final one and my first job of the morning is done. It's a messy one. I get up and watch his face, eyes closed and nostrils flaring as he struggles to return to a more regular breathing. His eyelashes flutter and he's staring at me.
"Can I do this to you?" Ben asks.
"I thought you'd never ask." I plant a small kiss on his lips.
"I wasn't sure if it's appropriate."
I bite my lip. "At this stage between us I'd say most anything is appropriate. Best to ask. You never know when you hear a yes."
We move back to the bedroom, and I explain what he can do for me. That process takes longer, but once he gets the hang of using his mouth, tongue and fingers together, I eventually get to a point where I don't have to instruct any longer and can enjoy the bright heaviness that unwinds and ripples across my body. Teaching Ben's so worth it. I flip him over and we go at it again.
"How many times can we do this?" Ben sprawls on the bed, flushed and dazed.
"Is this a serious question?"
"I might understand sex addicts now."
"Oh, my." Good to know I'm not the only one fearing this is addictive. "It's the tip of the iceberg, Ben."
"I understand what you meant when you said you didn't have time for sex. It's going to take up a lot of my day." Ben stares at the ceiling, his eyes shift back and forth as if he continues to analyze the impacts of sex on his weekly schedule. "Plus, you spoiled masturbation for me. My hand will never feel as good again."
"Agree to disagree. But thank you for the compliment."
"No compliment for me yet?"
"The second time was better." I turn to face him. "You have a very gifted tongue."
"And fingers?" he prompts.
"And fingers."
"One more round then?"
"As soon as you are up for it."
"I am up. I'm a healthy twenty-three-year-old. Up is not an issue." And he places my hand on the proof of his statement.
That time his tongue and fingers work on me in perfect synchrony, and I'm the one who gets to the finish line as if I'm in a hurry, my mind empty of worries, focused solely on the waves of pleasure radiating throughout my body. Messy and spent, we fall asleep.
