Cider House Fools, page 11
He wraps his arms around me. Together we sway in place. I bury my nose into his chest and inhale with no shame. “You smell so good. Like that whiskey tastes, only like winter and Balthasar. Masculine with a kiss of joker and a sprinkle of asshole. I like it.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “I think you’ve had enough of that whiskey.”
“What is it?” I asked absently, not trying too hard to figure out what brand the whiskey might be. I don’t have any room for coherent thoughts with Balthasar’s body heat soaking into my front while the crackling fire warms up my backside.
He pauses for a moment, then turns me. We start swaying again. “It’s mine. I made it.”
I stop, pushing against his chest, wanting to see his face. “You…you made that? Balthasar! It’s so good! Who distributes for you? I want that in my restaurant!” Moonlight pours through the big picture window, outlining his face. His grin slips, his eyes narrowing.
His expression hardens. “Now you sound like Smith. No.” His arms drop to his sides.
I lift my hands up, then let them flop to my sides. This Balthasar is more mercurial, his temper closer to the surface than it was when we were growing up. I’m struck with longing for the light-hearted, easy-going boy I used to know. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was a touchy subject. Why did you tell me you made it then?” I wrap my arms around my midsection and rub my arms, feeling a chill that wasn’t here just a moment ago.
He runs his hands over his face, pressing his fingers into his eyes while he takes what I assume is cleansing breath. When he removes them, he shrugs, giving me a pre-apologetic lop-sided smile. “The alcohol…it’s a sore spot between Smith and me. I don’t want to talk about that right now.” He pulls me against him again. “Now I’m the one who needs to apologize. Having you here, in my living room…I’m off balance and off my game Ben.”
“I don’t want games.” I wrap one arm around his neck and rest the other hand on his shouder. His arms slide around my back. We resume swaying, fitting together like pieces of a brand new puzzle. I sigh, sinking into him.
“What do you want?” He asks, his breath tumbling across the top of my head.
“Everything. Nothing.” Images of Gran tumble through my mind and I blink hard. What I’d really is for Gran to be alive. Maybe get a handle on myself and not feel like I’m two seconds away from either a breakdown or complete disassociation.
“I’m betting, if I knew Gran, we’ve got about six weeks for you to figure it out.” He tightens his hold on me, knowing I’m going to try to untangle myself from him again.
“Did she tell you what she was going to do?” I demand. How does he know what the contents of her video contained?
He chuckles. “Keep dancing.” He runs a hand up my arm, leaving a trails of goosebumps in his wake. He spins me out, smiling devilishly as he pulls me back in. I stumble a little on the last spin and land hard against him. My heart beats a little harder, as he bends me back, leaning over me, and I can’t stop my breath from becoming shallow pants. He holds me in that position, staring hard, digging deep into my eyes as if he might unearth a long lost secret within them. His gaze cuts into me, filleting me open, filling me with a wild panic that he might find something and force me to face it. But then he pulls me back up, ever so gently, cradling me as if I were a baby bird, and the panic dissipates. When his face slants over mine, his countenance is the one I remember, open and honest, no longer shuttered.
This how it always was with Balthasar. No guesswork. No games. A treasure my eighteen-year-old self tossed out like yesterday’s newspaper.
His lips graze mine. He drags them over mine, teasing, barely increasing the pressure, drawing away just a little after each sweep. I lift my chin, following him, unaware I’m chasing him until I’m fully committed and I can’t stop. By the time his tongue sweeps across my lower lip, seeking entrance, I’m no longer confused. I want to be consumed. By him.
He kisses me breathless. “Balthasar stop,” I beg, in a voice that clearly does not want what it asks. I lay my hand lightly on his chest, needing something to center on.
“Stop what?” he mumbles, still kissing me. “Dancing? Kissing you? Or do you mean bringing up Gran?”
“All of it. None of it. I don’t know.” My fingers walk up his chest, climbing up his neck until I’m cupping his face. I push up on tip toes and lean into him. His tongue sinks into my mouth, stroking me so skillfully I feel it all the way to my toes. I push up farther, letting go of his face to wrap my arms around his neck as he pulls me closer. His erection swells against my core and I shamelessly tilt my pelvis, desperate to ease the throbbing ache between my legs. I don’t want to talk about the things that hurt. I want to forget everything and lose myself. I push him, and he steps back, letting me steer him to the couch. Just before his legs hit the back he breaks the kiss, bending down and scooping me up.
He tosses me on the couch, his eyes locked on my chest as I bounce once. “Balthasar please,” I whine. My body is heavy, sinking into the couch under the weight of my need. I lift my arms over my head, and pull my knees up, arching my back as I stretch, reaching for the surface, desperate to breach the tide of desire pulling me under. The hem of my sweater brushes against my stomach, igniting my skin with an electric longing that arcs and snaps as it pulls tight. My legs fall open, inviting him in.
“Please what, Ben?” he demands, his eyes focused on the strip of bare skin. Why isn’t his tongue there already?
I reach down and unbutton my pants. “Show me how much you missed me,” I mutter, fumbling with my zipper. The words are sound flippant, but they were damn hard to get out. I lift up my hips. His eyes are hooded, his canines glinting in the dancing light of the crackling fire. He grasps the fabric over my thighs and yanks my pants down. Bending over, he drops his face over my cunt and inhales deeply. “Fucking hell, Ben. I’ve missed this. So much.” I start kicking my legs, trying to help as he furiously rips my pants down. He tosses them aside and looms over me. Our eyes meet. Just before I break from the intensity of his stare he drops it to my naked, glistening cunt. In the next breath he’s bent between my legs, his hands sliding under my thighs, groaning as he sucks and nips his way up the inside of them. “I don’t know if I can be gentle, Ben. I’m fucking starving for you.”
I let one leg fall off the couch, shamelessly opening myself to him as I slide my hands up my belly and squeeze my breasts through the cups of my bra and blouse. I knead them as I stare back, my eyelids heavy. An exigent, impatient, hungry mewl leaves me as I restlessly shift under his study. This is what I need. We don’t need to talk. This is Balthasar. He isn’t broody like Whitaker. I tug at his shirt, desperate for him to take it off so I can feel his naked skin slide against mine. He sits up, ripping his T-shirt over his head. His sculpted chest is beautiful and bare. There is no need to cut him open to reveal his secrets. Everything is written across his face in a clear and legible script. I’d forgotten what a gift his unfailing honesty is. “Balthasar please. If you don’t touch me, I’m going to do it myself.”
He twists his T-shirt into a rope. “Take off the rest,” he orders. My stomach contracts as I lift up and pull off my top. I reach for my bra, but he stops me. “No. Leave that on. The way your nipples are puckering under that lace is fucking perfection. It’s fucking gorgeous Ben. You’re gorgeous,” he groans. My eyes follow his hand as he reaches down and adjusts his erection through his pants. My knees roll in as my clit throbs in time with my thundering heart. I hold out my wrists, biting my lip as he wraps the twisted shirt around my wrists and ties it, pulling it tight.
His gaze is so intense, so smoking hot, my skin is sizzling. “Stop looking at me. I’m going to come all over this couch before you touch me,” I gasp.
“You will not, or I won’t touch you,” he threatens. My eyes flit to his crotch, and he catches me looking. His lips part as he brings his thumb up to rub his lower lip, his tongue darting out as his other hand grasps his dick. He squeezes it through his pants as he sits tall, letting his head fall back as he groans.
“Are you still my good girl, Ben?” he asks. A shock of deep auburn hair falls over ove glittering eye. His lust infused, gritty tone melts into my throbbing, aching nub between my legs as I clench my thighs against him and rock.
My breasts strain against the lace he likes so much, my breaths so fast and shallow I can hardly answer. “Yes,” I pant. “Bal–“
“Shh. You know I’m all about presentation. Let me look, Ben.” He crawls over me, dropping down to swirl his tongue over the hollow under my sternum. He sucks the skin into his mouth until I begin bucking up to meet him, then laves at it with his tongue. Then he presses a finger into the wet spot and drags it between the swell of my breasts, over the bridge of my bra, and down my abdomen, stopping at the top seam of my panties.
“Jesus Ben, these are a far cry from those little cotton numbers you used to wear,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing the threads of the design stitched into the lace of underwear. He backs down the couch. “I’m not sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” I ask mindlessly.
He bends down, gasping the thin side elastic in his hand. He bites down at the conjuncture of the elastic and the front panel and quickly snaps them apart. “For this,” he breathes against my skin, before moving to the other side. I lift my ass as he pulls the scrap of fabric out, balling it up and tucking it in his pocket as he sits back and stares at my sex. My nipples ache as my chest heaves with anticipation and want. His eyes glitter, catches of light from the dancing flames glittering in his irises like moonlight over midnight ocean, as he crawls back over me and steals the air from my lungs. He nibbles down my jaw, then presses plush, closed mouth kisses down my neck. Every piece of me is kissed differently as he edges me, never once touching the epicenter of my desire. My clit screams for attention, my pussy clenching around the spirit of dick to come as he licks the tops of my breasts. Arousals runs down the crack of my ass he sucks my nipples into his mouth, right through the fabric. His hands rest beside my head. A lock of his hair falls, brushing against my breast as he bites the underside.
He’s patient, savoring the experience, showing a restraint he didn’t possess when we were young.
My abdomen quivers as he brushes his lips across my skin, his fingertips running down my sides. The lightest of touches, dancing across the curve of my hip like the dancing shadows on his back. He glows in the space between the fire and the moonlight, his cinnamon scent both warm and icy, pervading my senses and heightening every touch. My fingers flex and contract, my nails digging into the leather cushions, desperate to run down the rippling muscles in his back as he hovers over me.
My head thrashes from side to side as noises I’ve never made pour out of my throat. I ache for him to touch, to slide his fingers inside of me and launch me into the stars. Body language is all I have left to beg with. The words to ask for more, like me and any rational thought, are gone, spiraling in the whirlwind of sensations as he draws ever closer to the place I long for him to be.
He clamps a hand on each of my thighs, splitting me father open as he licks, from my umbilicus, over my pubic bone to the beginning of my slit. “Bennett, eyes on me,” he orders, his face mere millimeters from flesh.
I stop thrashing, lifting my lids, meeting his eyes as he hovers over my sex. He inhales, pursing his lips and then blows. I detonate, without ever having been touched.
The soft cotton sheets I’m tangled up in are navy blue. They smell fresh, like they’ve recently been laundered and hung in the summer sun, but the room is drafty, chilled only in the way a farmhouse in winter can be. I lift up a sheet and peek down, confirming my lower half is indeed bare. I roll over and grab a pillow, bringing it to my nose. A deep inhale confirms that I am in Balthasar Ryerson’s bed.
My mind tumbles back to last night as I stretch. A blush immediately heats my cold cheeks as I remember how he wrung orgasm after orgasm out me with just his mouth. The door bursts open. I yelp, yanking the sheets up to my chin as Balthasar leans in the door frame.
“You let me sleep over!” I shout, whipping out a finger to point at him.
“Guilty,” he says glibly, lifting up a steaming mug of coffee. “Want it? It’s got apple pie creamer in it. I made it.”
“Want it? I require it.” I sniff, viciously yanking the sheet out of the end of the bed so I can sit up with it tightly tucked around my waist. “Yes I want it. Give it here.”
He grins, completely unfazed by my grumping as he walks across the bedroom. How long has he been up? He’s freshly showered, dressed in a fitted shirt and pants that qualify his ass as illegal. He hands me the mug.
“May I?” he gestures towards the empty space on the bed next to me.
“It’s your bed.” I shrug, lifting the mug to my lips to blow. I take a tentative sip. It’s unbelievable. It tastes like coffee, apple tart, and vanilla bean ice cream. “Fuck me, ‘Sar, this is incredible. Please tell me this is bottled and available for purchase.”
He sighs, falling back on the bed, is frustration flitting across his face. “I’m working on it.”
I take another sip and set the mug down carefully. “Is that why you stayed?” I pull my knees up and drape my arms around them. “I guess I didn’t see you staying. You never professed to love the farm like Whittaker did. And now that I think about it, I can’t remember if I ever really asked you what your plans were.” I swallow hard, trying to push down the lump in my throat. I was a bad lover, and a worse friend. “I’m sorry Balth,” I whisper, shortening his name like I did when we were kids. “I’m sorry I never asked.”
He props his upper body up, leaning back on his elbows, studying as I confess. The corners of his lips quirk up into a small, sad smile as he leans over and kisses my forehead. “You did ask, Ben, I just didn’t have a good answer. I didn’t have plans to stay here, but after Smith left, someone had to stay and help mom.”
I know he isn’t inferring anything, but a deep pain strikes my insides hearing what he doesn’t say. With her son dead and her daughter in law running multiple businesses, the only person Gran had to stay and help was me, and I left her to run the farm herself. Rubbing my chest doesn’t soothe the sharpening permanent ache that’s taken up residence. He snatches my hand and holds it firmly between us. “Stop it. That wasn’t what I meant. You had every right to go off and make a life for yourself. I could have too. I didn’t wake up one morning in overalls and a John Deere hat, Bennett. I spent a lot of time drinking. I partied and fucked my way through four counties for a couple of years while I took some business classes at the community college. And then I made a batch of cider.”
“You make cider too?” I ask incredulously.
“Small batches. That first one was so sour I could have used it as rust remover.” He shakes his head, chuckling. “That’s my dream. Too open a cider house, make some small batch apple whiskey, some really good cider, and some coffee creamer. I have a whole line of Ryerson Farm products dreamed up. I just don’t have to money to get the ball rolling.”
He squeezes my hand as I wonder how much I could get for a couple of eggs and a kidney. There is nothing I want more than to give him his cider mill. He rolls over to face me. “How you feeling? Is your throat sore? I bet it is. I didn’t even get to stick my dick in it.” He grins. “You’re still one hell of a screamer.”
“Hey!” I squeal in protest, half-heartedly punching his arm. He throws his head back and laughs. The rich, genuine timbre smooths the edges of my pain. “What time is it?” I ask. The suspiciously light shade of gray streaming through the window is setting off alarm bells.
“Nine. Why? Do you have to be some place?” The question is innocent, but his Balthasar is smirking. What does he know that I don’t?
“Shit. I never called Franklin last night, and I need to feed the animals.” I scramble up, firmly grasping the cotton sheet so it stays wrapped around my body as it slips out from under the comforter. Not because I feel shy about Balthasar seeing me naked, but because I don’t trust myself not to jump on top of him.
He lays back flat on his back and inspects the ceiling. “Smith feed the animals this morning, and, um, I called Franklin and let him know you were safe.”
I rub my ear and smack the side of my head a few times. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that correctly. What did you say? Because I thought I just heard you say you called Franklin. Franklin my best friend. Franklin my business partner. Franklin that as far as I know, you’ve never met?”
“Yeah, well, that’s not exactly true. I have met him, Bennie.” He runs a hand up the back of his head and through his carefully styled, professionally tousled hair. When he’s done, it just looks better.
I have no idea where Franklin and Balthasar could have met, but the thought of them together provokes a visceral reaction. An image of Franklin and Balthasar standing together casually next to each other blooms across my brain. Balthasar’s thick, russet hair and brilliant blues in stark contrast to Franklin’s dark brown man bun and amber eyes has my ladies bits perking right up. Franklin would more than interested in Balthasar’s business ventures. He’d find Balthasar’s laid back, happy go lucky personality and his perfectly round, tight ass as desirable as I do. Not to mention the absolute telephone pole ‘Sar was gripping through his pants last night. I clutch the sheet harder and turn away as my daydream turns an ugly shade of green.
UGH. What the fuck is wrong with me? I gave one of them up years ago and the other has made himself more than clear that we will never more than friends. I have no right to be jealous. “Where’s my clothes? I have to go,” I snap irritably. I’m not annoyed enough to let that fantastic coffee go to waste, though, so I twist back and grab the mug, helping myself to another long swallow.
Balthasar sits up, his abs lifting his straight off the bed like he’s trained with Cirque Du Soleil. This casual display of stellar core strength is just passive aggressive enough to push me over the edge. “What’s the matter Bennie?” He cocks his head, his eyebrows drawn down quizzically.
