Beautiful Bitch(12)

“Nice mouth, Ryan. Does your mother know you’re such a pig?”

He barked out a laugh. “If the way she looked at us after we f*cked in the coatroom at my cousin’s wedding in February is any indication, then yes.”

“I hadn’t seen you in two weeks!” I said, feeling my cheeks warm. “Don’t look so smug, you ass.”

“But I’m your ass,” he said, and pressed a lingering kiss to my lips. “Don’t pretend like you don’t love it.” I couldn’t argue. Bennett might have spent more time out of Chicago than in it lately, but he was all mine. He never left any doubt about that. “And speaking of asses”—he reached down and squeezed mine, hard—“the things I’m going to do to yours tonight . . .”

I started to reply—to argue or say something smart in return that would put me back in the verbal driver’s seat—but I couldn’t think of anything.

“Jesus. You’ve been stunned silent,” he said, eyes wide in surprise. “If I’d known that’s all it’d take to get a little peace and quiet, I’d have brought it up ages ago.”

“I . . . um.” I opened and closed my mouth a few times but nothing came out. This was new. When the oven timer cut through the air, I forced myself to pull away, still a little off balance.

I pulled the bread from the oven and drained the pasta, feeling Bennett move up behind me again. He hooked his chin over my shoulder, wrapped his arms around my waist.

“You smell so good,” he said. His mouth went back to work on my neck, as his hands began a slow descent down to the hem of my skirt. I was more than a little tempted to let him finish.

Instead, I nodded to the cutting board. “Can you finish the salad for me, please?”

He groaned and loosened his tie, grunting something unintelligible as he began working at the opposite counter.

Ribbons of garlic-scented steam curled up from the bowl as I tossed the pasta and sauce together, trying to clear my head. As usual, it was impossible when he was nearby. There was just something about Bennett Ryan that seemed to suck all the air out of a room.

I’d been blindsided by how hard I’d fallen for him, and lately I missed him so much when he was gone. Sometimes I’d talk to my empty bedroom. “How was your day?” I’d ask. “My new assistant is hilarious,” I’d say. Or: “Has my apartment always been this quiet?”

Other days, when I’d worn his shirt to sleep so many times it had lost his smell, I’d go over to his place. I’d sit in the huge chair that looked out over the lake, and wonder what he was doing. Wonder if it was possible for him to miss me even a fraction as much as I missed him. Jesus. I never used to understand women who acted like this when their boyfriends traveled. I used to just assume it was a good opportunity for a full night’s sleep and some downtime.

Somehow, Bennett had managed to work his way into every part of my life. He was still the same stubborn, driven man he’d always been, and I loved that he hadn’t changed who he was just because we were together. He treated me as an equal, and even though I knew he loved me more than anything, he never cut me any slack. For that I loved him even more.

I carried our plates to the table and glanced back over my shoulder. Bennett was still grumbling to himself as he sliced a tomato.

“Are you still complaining?” I asked.

“Of course.” He brought the salad over, smacking my ass before pulling out my chair.

He poured us each a glass of wine before dropping into the seat across from me. Bennett watched me take a sip, his eyes moving from mine, to my lips, and back up again. A sweet smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, but then he seemed to blink back into focus, remembering something. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, how’s Sara?”

Sara Dillon had graduated from the same MBA program that I had, but had since left RMG to work for another firm. She was one of my best friends, and Bennett had offered her the Director of Finance position in the new branch but she’d turned him down, not wanting to leave her family and the life she had in Chicago. He didn’t blame her, of course, but as the big day drew closer and we still hadn’t found anyone, I knew he was beginning to worry.

I shrugged, remembering the conversation I’d had with her earlier that day. Sara’s douchebag of a fiancé had been photographed kissing another woman, and it seemed Sara might really be seeing what the rest of us had suspected for years: Andy was a cheating dick.