Kristen Ashley - The Promise

“The Belvedere, how can we help you today?”

“Can you ring me up to room four thirteen?”

“Of course. One moment.”

I heard nothing. Then I heard clicks. Finally I heard rings.

“’Lo?” Ben’s drowsy voice said.

“It’s your friendly wake-up call,” I stated chirpily. “Time to get your ass out of bed and out of that room or I’ll have to pay for an extra day.”

“Baby.” Now his voice was drowsy and amused.

I liked the drowsy and amused so I went for more.

“Of course, I wouldn’t be paying for it, my company would, but momma don’t play that way with her employers.”

I only had amused—rumbling deep amused—when he asked, “Momma don’t play that way?”

“Yep,” I answered.

“Baby, there are a lotta things you are, but street is not one of them.”

“I can totally do street.”

“You could, if your dad was not Italian but African American. That not bein’ the case, you cannot.”

“Are we gonna squabble about whether I can do street or not?” I asked.

“No, seein’ as I gotta get my ass outta this bed before your company has to pay the extra day you won’t be usin’ this room so we don’t have time since that’ll take a year.”

“Right then, to finish that particular discussion, I can so do street.”

“Whatever,” he muttered, but it still rumbled with amusement.

“Okay, I gotta get to a meeting.”

“Cara.”

At his sudden change in tone, I stopped dead, standing in the hallway of a medical office building.

“What?” I whispered.

“Bag packed, by the door.”

My heart tripped, but my mouth spewed attitude. “Well, I’m not trustin’ you to pack for me. You’d totally fuck it up.”

“There is no way to fuck up packing, Frankie. You toss the shit in, close the case. It zips, you’ve succeeded.”

“Ben, just the idea of tossing my stuff in a suitcase without folding or strategizing placement gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

“Then it’s good you packed.”

“I know.”

“No, Francesca.” His voice was deep and not easy, but low and heavy with meaning. “It’s good you packed.”

My voice was not easy, but quiet and also heavy with meaning when I replied, “I know.”

He was silent a second, maybe letting that sink in, before he asked, “You got a guesstimate when you’re gonna be at my place?”

“With the way my day is planned, maybe I should come to the restaurant, get the keys, go to your place, and see you when you’re off.”

This I had thought about in the last several hours since leaving Benny. These were not good thoughts, primarily because everyone likely knew I’d bailed on him, and although his family seemed to be playing Switzerland with that, others might not. And when it came to the pizzeria, those others could be there.

They were also not good thoughts because Benny worked late and I wanted to see him, but I also needed sleep.

Maybe I’d nap while he was at the restaurant.

“Uh…honey, you came back to me. I’m not workin’ tonight,” Benny said, cutting into my thoughts.

“You’re callin’ in Vinnie Senior?” I asked, not certain how I felt about that either because it would mean there would be little delay in the Bianchis knowing I was back.

“No. Manny can cover the kitchen for a day or two. He does it sometimes when I got a day off and he doesn’t fuck up my kitchen when he does it. Long haul, though, Man doesn’t have it in him. It’s gotta be Pop.”

I found that interesting.

I didn’t have the time to find out why that was interesting.

I only had the time to say, “All right.”

“I’ll give Man a call, get to the restaurant, make sure everything’s sorted for him. So, again, when am I gonna see you?”

“Around six.”

“Right. Then see you around six.”

Suddenly, I felt extremely happy and couldn’t keep it out of the “Yeah” I gave to him.

“Yeah.” He gave it back to me.

I drew in a steadying breath.

“Later, Benny.”

“Later, Frankie.”

I disconnected and looked down the hall to where Trey, my rep, was standing, head bent to his phone, thumb moving over it, expression set to annoyed.

And I thought, Fuck him. I was good at my job, even if the learning curve meant that for four months, my downtime was spent with my nose in patient information leaflets, company brochures, past sales reports, and team evaluations.

He was going to have to suck it up.

I was there to stay.

Or, at least for the next minute.

The one after that, we’d see.

I had butterflies at the same time I was experiencing pleasantly unpleasant (or unpleasantly pleasant) flashbacks as I parked in front of Benny’s house.

I sucked in a breath, grabbed my purse and computer, and exited my rental car.

When I did, as if she had a sixth sense, I saw Mrs. Zambino standing out on her stoop, high-heeled boots on, hair up, arms crossed on her chest that was covered in a sweater I was pretty certain I saw a celebrity wearing in last week’s issue of Us magazine.

She wore it better.

She was staring at me, a severe look on her face.

Well, there you go. Benny’s family was Switzerland, but Mrs. Zambino was pissed at me.

I ignored that, juggled my bags, waved enthusiastically, and called, “Hey there, Mrs. Zambino!”

Her body jerked in a peeved way, then she turned and stomped into her house.

I made a mental note I had work to do with Mrs. Zambino and turned toward Benny’s.

I was at the top of the stoop when the door opened.

Then I wasn’t at the top of the stoop, seeing as Benny’s arm flashed out, hooked me around the waist, and yanked me inside.

The door slammed shut about a second before I slammed against the wall of Ben’s foyer, pinned there by Benny.

“Couch or bed?” he asked, his eyes an inch from mine, and a throb pulsed between my legs.

“Wh-what?” I asked back, following, but not able to process what was happening quickly enough to make an appropriate response.

“Bed,” he rumbled, his eyes dropping to my mouth. “Room to move. We’ll break in the couch when I’m focused.”

When he was focused?

What did that mean?

I had no chance to ask. My purse and computer bag were on the floor, my hand was in Benny’s, and he was dragging me toward the stairs.

When we hit the stairs, I still had no chance to talk, since I had to concentrate on where my feet were taking me so I didn’t slam face-first into a stair.

After that, I had to concentrate on not tripping down the hall.

Then I had to concentrate on staying upright when Ben whirled me to face him, my back to the foot of the bed, and he pulled my trench with blazer down my arms and tossed them aside.

Only then did I slam my hands on my hips as I glared into his eyes and snapped, “Well, hello, Benny Bianchi.”

His reply was to plant his hand on my chest and shove.

I let out a small scream and hit the bed on my back.

Benny hit me.

Then his mouth hit mine.

And then he was kissing me.

It finally filtered through my brain that this was hot, all of it. He was kissing me and I liked the way he tasted. So I wound my arms around him and kissed him back.

If I had time to think about it that day (which I didn’t), I would have thought the first time was about uncontrolled emotion, need, and the fact I hadn’t been laid in over seven years. I was getting laid by Benny Bianchi, all of this explaining why it went so fast, burned so bright, and felt so good.

But luckily, I didn’t have time to think about it. Because if I did, I would have started fretting about when it would go slower and I’d have plenty of time to sink right into my head like I had with Vinnie. Wondering if I was doing something right. Wondering if he liked something I was doing, if I was exciting him, or if he was just hard, ready, and going through the motions so he could get inside me and finish things.

If I’d had time to think about it, it would have embedded itself in my head so it would be all about if I was doing it right, out of practice, or never really had the skill in the first place, and if Benny liked what I was doing.

I didn’t have the time to think about it that day, and I really didn’t have the time to think of it in that moment.

This was because Benny was action man. I should have known, considering he rarely missed opportunities.

Me in his bed without stitches in me, he wasn’t missing this one.

It was about hands and mouths and noises. Touch and taste. The scent of his aftershave. The titillating sound of him pulling the zipper down at the back of my dress. His hands moving in to glide skin against skin along my sides. The taste of his neck. The feel of his hardness against my thigh, my belly, my hip. The silky caress of the lining of my dress as he yanked it over my head. His tongue at my nipple over my bra. The feel of his hair in my hands. The excitement of him tearing my panties down my legs.

And then it happened.

He spread my legs, rolled between, and put his mouth to me.

Already ignited through sensory exploration, the feel of him against me made me combust.

I dug my heels into the bed to drive myself further into his mouth, but did this for a nanosecond before he swung my legs over his shoulders.

It was then I dug my heels in his back. He growled against my sex and it didn’t hit me I was still wearing spiked heels. It also didn’t hit me that it was not a growl of pain but something else entirely.