Jack and Djinn (The Houri Legends, #1)(14)
She forced down another bite, wishing Ben’s face would come into focus. She was looking at him, but somehow it was Jack’s face that would slide into view, looking at her with his wide, kind blue eyes. “He’s great—I mean, it’s great.” Oh, shit, she thought. He’ll catch that slip. Too much shiraz was catching up with her.
“He?” Ben asked, the suspicion apparent in his voice.
“I meant it. The steak. The cow. He, the cow, is what I meant.” Her words were coming slurred.
Ben burst into laughter. “You’re drunk!” He seemed to think this was funny. “Oh, god, you’re wasted. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this drunk.”
“Yeah, I may have had a bit too much wine.” Miriam set down her fork and wobbled to her feet. “I want to go to the ladies’ room. Then we can go?”
Ben chuckled again. “Yeah, sure. You gonna make it to the bathroom on your own?”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”
“You sure? I can help you, if you want.” He waggled his eyebrows and winked.
She just shook her head and concentrated on taking one step at a time, wishing she’d worn flats instead of heels. She didn’t have to pee; she just needed a few seconds away from Ben. Miriam touched up her makeup, more for something to do to pass the time than because she cared whether she looked good for Ben. When she ran out of stalling tactics, she stood at the mirror and stared at her reflection, hating Ben, hating herself for being stuck with him. Wishing, more than anything, that she was with Jack.
She wasn’t, though. She had to leave the bathroom; she had to go back out to Ben and try to keep him calm until she could escape home.
Taking a deep breath, Miriam returned to the table, keeping thoughts of Jack firmly out of her mind.
*
Ben’s apartment was always too hot, and it smelled like cheap cologne and old coffee. They’d gone back to his place, of course. He hated her apartment. It was too small, he said, and he didn’t like being right above where he worked. It was three miles from his place to the bar, and Miriam had walked those miles more times than she could count. She often ended up stranded at his place without a ride home.
Now they were back at his place, and both of them were tipsy; Ben was fumbling to untie his shoes, tossing his keys on the microwave, peeling his shirt off. He swayed across the room to where she sat on the couch. Miriam felt his hand on her knee, his lips on her neck. She swallowed in an attempt to fight back the sudden rush of nausea in her throat.
“I’m not feeling so good right now, Ben,” she said.
He either didn’t hear her, or didn’t care. His hand slid farther up her thigh, under the hem of her dress, and his lips found hers. She couldn’t kiss him back. All she could do was keep her eyes closed and push away the urge to vomit.
But no go.
She lurched to her feet, tripped, stumbled, and kicked her heels off as she ran to the bathroom. For several long, painful minutes, Miriam heaved into the toilet, acid burning her throat, her stomach lurching in protest. She felt Ben’s hands holding her hair back, heard his voice murmuring something meant to be comforting. Finally, the nausea passed, and she felt better. Strange how that works, she thought. She hated throwing up, but she always felt better afterward. She rinsed her mouth and brushed her teeth with the extra toothbrush Ben kept for her.
Maybe he’d take her home now.
No such luck. He was waiting for her in his bedroom, stripped down to his boxers, sending a text.
“Come on, baby, come lie down with me,” he said, setting down the phone.
“God, Ben, give it a rest. I just threw up.” It would have been better to remain sick. Maybe she could vomit again.
“Don’t you feel better, though? Anyway, it’s our anniversary, and I switched shifts with Eric so we could be together tonight.” He stood up and took her by the hand, pulling her to the bed. He kissed her chest between her breasts, unzipping her dress with one hand, the other exploring upward from her knees, his fingers clumsy and rough.
She was still drunk, and she couldn’t summon the energy to resist him, so she stood unmoving, eyes closed. His fingers looped through the hem of her panties, pulling them down, and then his fingers continued their exploration upward. Her dress was on the floor now, and he was unhooking her bra and kissing her throat; her body was responding, not quite against her will. She had once wanted to love him. Well, not exactly. She had wished she could love him, and tonight that would have to be enough. She had to get through this somehow, after all.
She was lying down on her back, and he was kissing her breasts, playing with her nipples, moving downward, kissing her thighs and between them, and all she wanted was to push his head away, but she didn’t dare. He rarely put this much effort into sex, so maybe she should try to enjoy it while it lasted.
She closed her eyes and let go, let herself pretend she liked it. Then, suddenly, Jack’s face appeared in her thoughts. He was gazing at her, and she couldn’t help but dream, but wonder, how he would feel pressed up against her, warm skin to warm skin, his hands tender and gentle on her body, his eyes watching her with real love. She lost herself in the dream, muzzy, still-drunk thoughts mixing reality with imagination. She felt someone push inside her and move above her. She knew it was Ben, but she just couldn’t help wishing, wishing, wishing it was Jack. She had to keep herself from crying out for fear she’d say Jack’s name by mistake. Her body was with Ben, but her heart was with Jack, and her mind was too confused to make sense of anything.